


Distance

by RosaleenBan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And shagging John!, Angst and Humor, Bisexual John, But just shagging cause they’re both dumb sometimes, Canon-Typical Violence, Crime Fighting, Eventual Happy Ending, Experienced Sherlock, First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's Alive!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaleenBan/pseuds/RosaleenBan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s back from the dead after a year away. John is back in 221B Baker Street after a year on his own. A lot is just how it used to be, but a lot has changed. For example, they’re shagging now. But just shagging, because neither one of them can figure out how to talk about it outside of the bedroom.</p><p>Majorly inspired by Christina Perri's "Distance" (hence the name), though with the larger scope of the details of a year away, a reunion, and at least three cases.</p><p>Now with fanmix!<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another First Case

This had been different since Sherlock’s return from the dead. The cases had always been the one constant in their world, and now – well, John couldn’t rightly explain the changes in this one, but they were there. And not in any way John would have expected.

Different. That was the best word for the cases, for Sherlock himself really. Even now Sherlock was humming with it: an energy altogether different than anything he used to exhibit; an attention John could not pin down. It was starting to be a distraction.

“Focus, John. I know you enjoy pretending to be an idiot, but even you know better than to be distracted by my stance when there’s a serial killer nearby.” Sherlock’s baritone cut through his thoughts. Some things would likely never change.

The detective hit send on his text before pocketing John’s phone. Of course.

“I wouldn’t find it so distracting if you weren’t standing directly in my line of sight,” John quipped back before shifting a bit to the right. It wasn’t the perfect angle for him to guard the flat exit from, but it was passable. Hopefully, he’d be able to take the man down if he tried to leave before Greg Lestrade and his force arrived.

John fingered the Browning tucked into his waistband, praying he wouldn’t have to use it.

“Lestrade is on his way.”

“Does he know you’re here, or is it just me?”

“I didn’t think the details were pertinent, considering the situation.”

“Of course you didn’t.” John would have rolled his eyes at the drama of it all, but he would honestly like to give the DI a bit of a shock, after all that had happened the last time he saw Sherlock alive.

“You approve,” Sherlock pointed out, his lips curved in a conspiratorial grin.

“Serial killer, Sherlock. Thought we spoke about the inappropriate smiling,” John said, not bothering to hide his own grin.

Sherlock didn’t respond. He just turned back to the flat door and shifted his position in the stairwell, subtly shifting to block John’s line of sight again before catching himself and sliding back into place. He had told John it was his habit to hunt criminals alone over the past year, and he still seemed to be adjusting to having a partner again.

That was not a train of thought John could pursue right now. He turned his attention back to the door, bracing himself for action. The man behind it had already killed twelve in the past year since Sherlock’s fall. One on every full moon, all following the same profile: men in their mid-thirties, tall, thin, pale with dark hair and light eyes. A fan of Sherlock, apparently. Moriarty was the only one who ever made clearer plays for the detective’s attention.

And Sherlock, the git, insisted on coming to catch him on the full moon tonight. No matter that the killer would surely attack as soon as he saw him, nor that Lestrade or even John were capable of this alone.

The turn of the knob was the only warning they had that the killer was on his way out, but it was enough to allow both of them to sink further back into the shadows of the stairwell.

John had a moment to look him over before he noticed them. He went into soldier mode now, taking in everything and automatically calculating how they affected his chances in a fight. Stocky, about John’s height but with more girth, probably equal parts muscle and fat. Dark hair wet and sticking to his forehead just above his eyes; could probably block some vision but not enough for John to make use of. Carrying a large canvas duffle bag over one shoulder; its considerable weight was slowing him down, but it could be used as a makeshift weapon.

All in all, even odds.

It was obvious when the killer saw Sherlock. His facial expression flickered from shock to excitement to what John could only describe as a horrible, raging mania in the course of just a few seconds. He let go of his duffle, letting it fall to the ground as he dropped into an aggressive crouch. His right hand disappeared into his jacket and came back out with a nasty, jagged-edged knife the length of John’s forearm.

And _that_ was just not happening. Not now, so soon after Sherlock had returned. Not ever.

John had the advantage; the killer still hadn’t seen him. He took his chance and dove in, tackling the other man at the waist.

The killer tried to stab him as they went down, but John was prepared for that. He shifted them so they landed on his right arm, pinning it beneath them. A surgical blow to the inside of the man’s wrist made him drop the knife altogether.

The attention he paid to the knife cost him, though. The next thing he knew, the killer had flipped them and was now straddling John, holding his right hand down and bearing down to punch him with his free hand.

And god, but that hurt. John had almost forgotten what a good fight was like.

John scrambled for the knife, but found it out of his reach. Out of both of their reach, he hoped.

_Stupid._ Again, the killer took advantage of his larger size and John’s distraction to press his luck. He wound his hands around John’s neck, slowly closing his windpipe.

John struggled against the hands, grappling for a grip on the man’s wrists.

Before he could do any real damage, the killer lurched to the side, letting go of John. Above him, Sherlock was pummeling him with the pommel of his own knife.

“God, Sherlock,” John said, catching his breath after the third blow. They were quickly becoming redundant, as the killer was already on the floor, too dazed to do more than make uncoordinated tries at getting up. “That’s enough.”

John scrambled over to the killer and pushed him down onto his stomach, pushing Sherlock out of the way before sitting on his back and holding both arms beneath him.

When John looked back to check his friend, Sherlock was stalking down the hall, texting with one hand and examining the blade with the other.

“This is the main murder weapon,” Sherlock commented after putting a phone away – John didn’t see which it was. He walked back to them before crouching to get a better look at the killer. “You thought it gave you style, to have a signature weapon. Thought it would catch my eye. Boring.”

He stood up and looked down at them, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Caught your eye, didn’t I?” the killer asked. “You’re here, aren’t you? Knew you were alive.”

“You suspected,” Sherlock told him. “If you knew, you wouldn’t have been surprised to see me. Nor would you have tried to gain notoriety by killing men who resemble me. You would have known that you would be caught.”

Sherlock turned dramatically, that greatcoat of his more a cape than a proper coat.  

John heard movement from the stairwell below them. “That’ll be DI Lestrade and his team,” John said before the killer could reply to Sherlock, more for his benefit than anything. He shifted down to give himself a better grip on the killer’s wrists as he tried to fight again. It wouldn’t do him any good; between his dazed state and John’s superior leverage, there was little chance he would get away from John, and even less that he would get out of a building crawling with the Met’s finest.

Lestrade’s voice preceded him, ringing clearly up to them from a full flight down. “John Watson, what’s the meaning of this? Sending me texts about a killer – _this_ killer, in particular? It was dangerous enough when you were with Sherlock, but I can’t allow for you to go about alone –”

“Well it’s a good thing he’s not alone, then, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, greeting Lestrade in the stairwell doorway.

John hadn’t seen Greg much in the past year, and he noted that time had taken its toll on the DI. Like John, he sported more gray hairs than he had a year ago, though he seemed more trim than he had in the eighteen months that John had known him.

Lestrade took a moment to look over Sherlock, surprise evident on his face, but not true shock. Had he known? His officers, all grouped behind him, waiting to see what would happen, looked confused and shocked.

“Well, in that case, please, carry on,” Lestrade eventually spat out. For a moment, John was afraid he was about to punch Sherlock, but instead he went on in a heated rant. “No reason to let anyone _know_ you’re back, to ask if the Met will even accept evidence from you anymore, to notify _your friends_ that you’re bloody well _not dead._ Just show up with a killer and pretend nothing’s happened. Yes, good plan, Sherlock.”

“I _do_ talk to my brother on occasion, if not by choice,” Sherlock replied calmly. “You knew, at least about Moriarty and Rich Brook. Don’t tell me you didn’t also deduce that I was alive?”

Greg pushed into Sherlock’s personal space, one finger out, jabbing Sherlock in the chest. “I suspected,” he said, his voice lower but no less angry. “Only suspected. How could I have known, with an autopsy report on my desk? You should have told me you were back.”

Beneath him, the killer began to struggle again.

“Um, Greg? Can this wait?” he called up. “I seem to have a serial killer beneath me here. A little help with him would be appreciated.”

“Right,” Lestrade said. He pointed to the killer. “You heard him, handcuff this man, bring him in on suspicion of murder.”

“And what about them?” Donavan asked. Of course Sally Donavan would be with him.

“What about them?” Lestrade asked, turning to look at her.

“Should we bring them in, too? Last time we saw the freak –”

“He was entangled in a case that saw him framed.” Lestrade interrupted. “As he was posthumously cleared of all charges a year ago, I think we can wait until morning for their statements.”

“Ta,” John said. He was standing now, though just barely. It would take him a few moments to recover, now that he was starting to feel the effects of those blows.

“Are you two alright?” Lestrade asked, looking John over. “I can get a medical team here.”

“No need,” John told him, realizing full well that the blood on his face and the marks he imagined on his neck were probably not supporting that assurance. “No critical injuries, nothing I can’t take care of at the flat.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course he’s sure,” Sherlock said. “I’ll get us a cab and get him home. We’ll be fine.”

“Back at Baker Street?” Greg asked.

“For the past week now,” John confirmed.

Greg nodded. “All right, then. Give us a text if you need anything, including someone to come manage that one for you.”

“Ta,” John said, biting back a laugh. He was still angry with the DI, but my did it feel good to be back in this, with Sherlock and the Met and even that bitch Sally Donavan, all so similar to how they had been just a year ago. All so different, too.

“We’ll be fine,” Sherlock repeated to Greg before turning to John. “You’re all right, John?” he asked, his voice low as his visually inspected John.

“Fine. A few bruises, nothing to get worked up about,” John said. He couldn’t help the smile that crept on him. “That was brilliant.”

Sherlock smiled, that small almost surprised smile. “It was, wasn’t it?”

 

…

 

It was just over an hour later when they got home, exhausted and excited and still running on adrenaline.

They hadn’t talked on the entire cab ride home, they had just sat on opposite sides of the bench, excitement like electricity between them.

Every now and again they would look to the other and laugh like mad schoolboys, caught up in their adventure.

It wasn’t as though they had never done this before; they had, scores of times. There were dozens behind bars because of them. But John had thought – and maybe Sherlock had as well – that that particular part of his life was over.

Drunk with the ecstasy of the moment, John ran up the steps to 221B, Sherlock close on his heels. He peeled his coat off and tossed it on a chair and popped into the bathroom to clean his face – a minor cut above the eye that bled worse than it actually was, some bruising around the jaw and neck, but no real damage. Sherlock had prevented that.

 When he came out, he found Sherlock in the hall, waiting for him. He took a few steps toward John, invading his personal space until he was backed up against a wall.

And then his lips were on John’s, expertly teasing them. Before John could react, his hands made their way under his jumper, running over his chest over his shirt.

It took him a moment to get his wits about him and pull back. “Sherlock – I thought –”

“John, please,” Sherlock moaned, before pressing back in for another kiss.

And yes, John was certainly ok with giving Sherlock whatever he wanted. Especially like this. As long as Sherlock was on board.

Which John had been quite certain he was not, up until a few seconds ago.

Not that it mattered now, not with Sherlock’s fingers making quick work of John’s trousers, and – yes, those hands certainly were dexterous, after all those years playing the violin. John’s knees nearly gave out as Sherlock’s fingers raced along his hips and sides, his mouth against John’s neck, carefully tracing the bruises he had earned earlier that night.

“Anything, Sherlock. Whatever you want,” John panted, finally getting with the picture.

He brought his own hands up to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt – surprisingly easy, given how tight he preferred them. His lips found Sherlock’s as he pushed the fabric off Sherlock’s shoulders, exposing miles of smooth skin and lean muscle.

And then Sherlock was gone, slipping down to his knees, his hands pulling down John’s trousers and pants.

“Please,” John begged, looking down at those perfect lips just in front of his cock.

Sherlock took his time, proving to John that he was in no way the innocent John had always taken him for. In fact, he was more than capable of doing things with his tongue that John had never experienced before, had never known to even _ask_ for. By the time he was swallowing John’s cock, John no longer had the cognitive capability to do anything more complex than moan Sherlock’s name.

Cheeky git loved it too, he kept looking up at John, somehow smirking around a mouthful of cock, looking like the cat who got the cream.

And that just set John off even more, petting Sherlock’s hair, calling him amazing, begging for more – he wasn’t sure he was in complete control of his mouth anymore.

“Sherlock, God, I’m close,” he moaned, still together enough to let Sherlock, this brilliant, impossible, _sexy_ man know to pull back.

Sherlock hummed in the back of his throat, then increased the pressure enough to send John over the edge. John braced himself against the wall with one hand, and kept the other on Sherlock’s cheek as he came, caught up in his awe at the detective.

“Bedroom, I think,” Sherlock suggested as John caught his breath.

“Yeah, think so,” John agreed, letting Sherlock take his hand and guide them to his room. John was still in a daze as Sherlock pulled off the rest of John’s clothes and spread him out on Sherlock’s bed. It was bigger than his own, and softer; built for a posh sort, like Sherlock.

“Let me –” John started, but Sherlock broke off the thought with a kiss.

“Just stay there, John,” Sherlock purred, pulling off his own trousers and pants. John watched with rapt attention; he had never thought he would see Sherlock like this, and he was going to take every advantage of the situation. He was hard – of course, though until tonight John wasn’t rightly sure that he ever _got_ hard, or had any interest in anything like this – and John didn’t shy away from staring. Although he was of average size, his cock looked longer, standing straight up against his thing frame. John reached out, wanting to touch him.

“Let _me_ ,” Sherlock said, batting John’s hand away. He was just as graceful without his clothes as he was with them, and he moved to the bed to spread himself over John without any hesitation. He pushed John back into the pillow, kissing him insistently as he lined their bodies up, laying his cock in the crease of John’s hip and leg and thrusting experimentally.

He was going to get himself off like this, John realized. Lying on top of John, rutting on him, kissing him.

John was quite ok with that.

He reached up and cupped Sherlock’s head with one hand, his arse with the other, and pulled both in for deeper contact. He moved his hips in time with Sherlock’s, giving him all the friction he could, trying to get the other man off.

Not that he needed any help. He was doing a bang-up job of it himself, writhing against John like a man possessed, desperate and needy.

John kissed his way down Sherlock’s neck, licking and biting at the place where his neck met his shoulder.

That must have been one of Sherlock’s spots, because it spurred on his orgasm. He shifted up and locked his elbows, giving himself the leverage he needed to thrust against John hard and quick, coming on John’s stomach in a few hot bursts.

He collapsed onto John then, completely spent. John let him be where he fell, his head beside John’s, their torsos lined up and legs entangled. He reached up and combed his fingers through his dark curls, appreciating the soft texture.

Sherlock hummed contentedly above him. He stroked the other man’s naked back, eliciting another hum.

John smiled and let himself get lost in the experience. He had thought about this before, furtively, guiltily thinking Sherlock would not appreciate being at the center of any such fantasy. He had said, hadn’t he, back when they had met, that he was married to his work. He had clearly put off any move John might make toward him, had made it clear that sex, dating wasn’t his thing.

Apparently, nothing was as clear as John thought it was.

And that was fine, really, John decided as he drifted off to sleep. As long as he could continue to hold Sherlock here, it was all fine.


	2. Tragedy of Errors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone...I took the lovely shagging from last chapter and threw angst all over it. As was necessary.
> 
> Enjoy!

The night must have taken more out of John than he thought. When he woke again, morning light was already streaming into the room, albeit from an unusual angle. He was covered with a comforter somewhat warmer and fluffier than his utilitarian linens, and the timorous threads of a violin’s melody were much closer than he usually heard from his bed.

He was in Sherlock’s room. How could he forget? He could almost still remember the soft touches of the detective as he roused John from sleep, just for a moment, to clean his stomach with a soft flannel and wrap him in the warm blankets. The echoes of the kisses Sherlock had peppered over his face and body still clung to his skin.

Not only was Sherlock apparently experienced, but he was a considerate lover? How had John not known this earlier?

They would have to talk about it, of course. About last night – what had happened, what would continue to happen, if John had any say in the matter. John smiled; it had been a long time since he had been on the edge of a new relationship, and he had forgotten the giddiness, the tingling feeling of anticipation that went along with them. There was so much he wanted to try with Sherlock, so much wasted time to make up for.

Had Sherlock wanted this before? Or was it something new he had decided upon in the last year? And really, was John correct in assuming it was a relationship he was after? Of course, he would have to be – they were best friends, flat mates, the only ones in each others’ lives really, if you discounted the stream of dates John had always indulged in. They had all but been in a relationship before, excepting the sexual connotations – and after last night, that seemed to be taken care of.

Of course there was some doubt – there always was with these things, especially with a bloke like Sherlock involved. But John tampered it down and told himself to enjoy the butterflies. They were part of this – the unknown, the adventure of starting something new. Best to enjoy it.

John pulled himself from the covers and fished his phone from his trouser pocket. Four missed texts, all from Lestrade asking them to come in as soon as possible this morning. He sighed as he shot a quick response back. That conversation would have to wait.

John eyed one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns hanging on the back of the door, but decided against it. It wouldn’t do to take liberties. And as his own dressing gown and fresh clothes were upstairs, he quickly put on his soiled clothes from the previous night. Not the most comfortable solution, but it would do.

After a quick trip to the loo, he made his way into the living room. Tea first, then a shower and change, then trip to Scotland Yard. After that, they would have time for a full meal and a proper chat, hopefully followed by a proper cuddle on the couch, and perhaps even a repeat performance of last night. Maybe – he still wasn’t sure about Sherlock’s thoughts on sex, or what his libido may or may not be like.

He didn’t recognize the melody Sherlock was playing when he entered the living room, but he knew the flavor of it. He thought briefly of interrupting, of walking over and taking Sherlock’s face in his hands and snogging him blind – but no. He knew exactly what Sherlock would think of him interrupting under normal circumstances. Not that these were normal circumstances, but best not to take his chances. There was still a chance of this all going south.

“Composing?” he asked instead.

Sherlock didn’t answer of course, but he looked up and favored John with a small smile before returning his attention to his bow.

“I like it,” John told him.

Not expecting conversation from Sherlock like this, he turned to the kitchen to start his tea and breakfast. Sherlock continued to play, and John enjoyed the music as he made his tea and toast. He put a plate and cup beside Sherlock before sitting to enjoy his own breakfast, but he really didn’t expect Sherlock to take any note of it.

And he didn’t. He kept playing that beautiful, delicate melody throughout.

John hated to interrupt, but Sherlock they had to be on their way to the Yard soon. He sighed and caught Sherlock’s eye, waiting for him to complete the current phrase. At least the detective was already showered and clothed in a clearly bespoke suit.

“I’m taking a shower, and then we have to be off to Scotland Yard,” John told him. “Half an hour? And then maybe lunch? I’d like to talk.”

“Very well,” Sherlock said quietly before returning to his violin.

A pause in his playing and a verbal answer? John hummed to himself as he made his way to the shower. Today was going to be a good day.

 

…

 

John’s early morning high was soon dampened by a long stay at Scotland Yard. He had forgotten how tedious these things were, how Greg had to keep them for hours filling out paperwork and giving separate interviews.

Not that he was being unreasonable, of course. Procedure and all. Greg had already interviewed Sherlock and had him stowed away with some tea and cold case files in an interrogation room, best case scenario for Sherlock. And really, it was just half noon now, and John was already finished with his interview. They’d be out of here with plenty of time for a nice lunch, followed by the rest of his plans.

“Well, that’ll do,” Greg said, closing the folder and filing it away in his desk drawer. “Would you mind – I wanted to talk to you about all this. You and Sherlock, actually, about him being back.”

John thought about it a moment. He still hadn’t forgiven Greg, not completely. He was about to tell him it could wait, that they had better things to do, when the other man continued: “Look, I’m sorry for everything that happened last year. Sherlock was right, we should have trusted him. _I_ should have trusted him, if no one else. It killed me to take him in like that, but I didn’t have a choice in it.”

“You had quite the way of showing it,” John said darkly.

“I know,” Greg told him. “I do wish I could take it back. I – well, Sherlock already knows this, but I spent a good deal of the past year continuing the Rich Brook investigation, unofficially. I couldn’t just leave it, could I?  And I found exactly what I expected: There was no Rich Brook, and if you dig enough, James Moriarty has been all over England. Everything that came out against Sherlock was a lie.”

So this is what Sherlock had been talking about last night. “Why didn’t you tell me? You knew I was looking all year for that proof–”

“I was going to,” Greg interrupted. “Really, truly, but Mycroft intercepted me before I could tell anyone, even my superiors. Took me away in one of those black cars and told me it was in Sherlock’s best interest if I kept it to myself. After that, I suspected he was still alive, but I couldn’t tell you on suspicion, could I? What if I was wrong?”

John wanted to be mad, he really did. He actually wanted to punch Greg Lestrade right in the face, maybe break a few teeth in the process. It was his due, wasn’t it, some recompense for being the only one left in the dark?

But he couldn’t. How could he, when if Greg had told him and he was wrong – well, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to take it. He had lost his old Browning on his last chase with Sherlock, and he had just recently bought the new one. One bullet, just like before.

Yeah, Greg had made the right call.

“It’s fine,” John sighed. “I can’t blame you, not with the way those two are. I was probably better not knowing.”

“Good. Great!” Greg favored him with a smile, and suddenly this was the bloke John met at the pub again, who he had once shared stories and complaints about their favorite consulting detective with. Greg crossed his office and opened the door to lead them out toward the interrogation rooms. “Then let’s go collect Sherlock and see what I can get out of him regarding the past year.”

“Not much,” John told him. “He’s only told me bits and pieces. It’s like he’s purposefully trying to be all mysterious.”

“Sounds like Sherlock,” Greg commented. “What’s it like, being back at Baker Street with him?”

“The same. Different. I don’t know,” John said. Truly, he would be glad not to have this conversation at Scotland Yard, especially now that they were no longer safely ensconced in the privacy of Greg’s office.

“Still not a couple, then?”

John couldn’t help blushing. _Not yet,_ he thought. Aloud he said, “No, we’re not. Or, well, maybe that’s a conversation for the pub.”

Greg laughed. “I knew it! Straight my arse!”

“I’m _not_ actually gay,” John told Greg, more for the nosey officers around them than Greg himself. “I’ve had many successful relationships with women, if you must know.”

“Better than me, then,” Greg said with a sad laugh. “After the divorce, I think I may just follow in your footsteps on this one.”

John laughed. “How about you buy me a pint and tell me all about that plan? I think you owe me one.”

“All right, I think I deserve that,” Greg said. “Thursday? At our old regular spot?”

“Thursday it is,” John agreed.

The door was open to the interrogation room, and John hoped that didn’t mean Sherlock had gone wandering off somewhere.

 

…

 

Today could have been a good day. Would be, maybe, Lestrade ever let them leave Scotland Yard.

As it was, Sherlock was stuck in an interrogation room, quite comfortably set up with cup of tea and some cold case files, but certainly not where he would prefer to be. And nowhere near John, which was completely unacceptable.

Sherlock had given his statement of the night before, and John should be done with his by now. The killer had been caught, had even confessed to his crimes. Yes, Lestrade wanted to talk to Sherlock, but that could happen later. There was no reason for him to be here, and certainly no reason to be separated from John.

John, vocally, adamantly straight John, whom he had been so careful with all the time he’d known him. John, who had seen him as brilliant from the start, who needed no reason to like Sherlock, to stay with him, other than Sherlock being himself.

John, who had responded when he kissed him last night, who had all but let him shag him. Who had let Sherlock control everything; who had let him take John apart piece by piece, and who only wanted more. How had Sherlock missed his capacity for that in all their time together?

And was this like the intolerable parade of women he always brought around, once and done? Sherlock wanted to know – _needed_ to know – what was on John’s mind, and for once he couldn’t trust himself to deduce it. There would be too great a chance of overlaying his own desires onto John.

He wanted to ask this morning, but what could he say? “John, I’d rather like it if what happened last night became a regular occurance between us,” seemed rather tedious, didn’t it?

It had been a moment of weakness on his part. Of course, he had been attracted to John for almost as long as he had known him. John was intriguing, brilliant in his own pedestrian ways; he had caught Sherlock’s attention and held it in a way no one had since his years at university.

And this past year, alone with none by Mycroft and his lackey’s for company, taking down Moriarty’s network piece by piece – all of it had been for John, hadn’t it? To keep him safe. To make it safe for Sherlock to return to him.

The year apart, the adrenaline of last night, the attraction that had colored their entire relationship – it had all come together last night in a way Sherlock had not known himself bold enough to try.

No, he had not planned for this, but now that it had happened, now that he had felt John _like that_ , there was no going back. Not for him. He was not a sentimental man, but he _needed_ John in a way he wasn’t accustomed to. If John didn’t want anything more from him, he wasn’t sure he could accept it.

Pathetic. If John didn’t want anything more physically from him, he would be fine. As long as John stayed. He needed his blogger and flat mate.

Pathetic, still. Sentiment. But no less true for it.

Sherlock wanted to throw something, but he was sure both Mycroft and Lestrade had access to the CCTV, and he would rather neither of them asked imbecilic questions.

Instead, he stood up. He had just about enough of this. Lestrade could talk to him now, with John, or he could wait until Sherlock was ready.

As soon as Sherlock opened the door, the endless conversations that muddled the Yard offices flooded over him. He habitually tuned out all but the most important.

As always, Sherlock honed in on John’s voice as it neared. “I’m not actually gay. I’ve had many successful relationships with women, if you must know.”

Sherlock took an involuntary step back into the interrogation room, feeling his whole body stiffen at the words.

Well, now he knew. If John was still insisting that he was straight, it was clear that what happened last night was an anomaly. Sherlock didn’t need for it to happen again. He was a master of his body, his vessel.

He could tamp it down, didn’t need to act on it again. He _would_ tamp it down, this physical desire. There was no point in playing with fire; it was more important to have John there, to make him stay.

He stalked back to the table, squared his shoulders and sat down. Clearly John and Lestrade were coming for him, and they would find him buried in cold cases.

“Ah, good, you’re still here then,” John said as he strolled through the door, Lestrade just behind. He was smiling at Sherlock as though he had no cares. How could he still be so cheerful?

Sherlock frowned at them. “Where else would I be?” he asked dryly.

“I don’t know, making trouble just about anywhere?” John suggested in that teasing tone he favored when he was in a good mood. Sherlock wanted to snap at him for it.

“I trust you’ve finished your debriefing?”

“I have everything I need about the case from last night,” Lestrade confirmed.

“Perfect. We’re off then,” Sherlock cut in before the DI could ask any inconvenient questions about the last year. He stood up without a hint of flourish and strode toward the door.

“I actually wanted to ask –”

“Boring,” Sherlock interrupted. “Are you coming, John?”

“Sorry, Greg,” John said – entirely unnecessary, of course, but there was no breaking John of his habitual observance of social niceties. “Another time, yeah?”

Sherlock was out the door before he could hear Lestrade’s reply, certain that John was at his heels.

 

…

 

John almost didn’t make it downstairs in time to see Sherlock out the door and hailing a cab. As it was, he just about had to run to catch up with him.

“What was all that about?” John asked as they got in.

“221 Baker Street,” Sherlock told the cabbie, not waiting for John’s input and apparently forgetting all about lunch. The man was a whirlwind, tight and controlled and yet still radiating so much emotion, all John could interpret from it all was ‘Not Good.’

“Well?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, John,” Sherlock said, his voice crisp.

“In there, the way you acted with Lestrade! You couldn’t be bothered to engage in a bloody conversation?”

“I’m busy, John. I have experiments to get back to. I have no time to indulge his curiosity.”

“Do you think maybe it’s not just curiosity?” John asked. “He does care for you, you berk.”

“Irrelevant. I couldn’t answer his questions anyway,” Sherlock said.

And that was the crux of the issue, wasn’t it? A year away, and even John only had the barest details of the dismantling of Moriarty’s web. No one else even had that, except of course for Mycroft. John sighed. This was not the discussion he was interested in today.

“So you keep telling me,” John said, hopefully making his surrender on the issue clear. “We need to talk.”

“About?” Sherlock asked. He was looking out the window now, giving the street outside the majority of his attention.

“Last night, Sherlock,” John said slowly, as though he was talking to a child. And my, but this was a lot harder than he had imagined it would go.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, that deep baritone tight and clipped. “There’s nothing to talk about, John.”

His eyes were still focused on the streets as they passed. John wanted to reach out, pull his chin around to look at him.

“Nothing to talk about?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock told him, disdain clear in his voice. “It was an anomaly. It won’t happen again.”

_An anomaly,_ John thought as his heart dropped, a cold and heavy weight in his stomach. He was suddenly glad Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. His disappointment was probably written all over his face.

“Ah, all right, then,” John managed, hoping his voice didn’t betray him. If that was what Sherlock wanted, he wasn’t exactly in a position to argue, was he?

He knew this was a possibility with Sherlock. “Married to his work,” he had said, all those months back, hadn’t he? John had thought he was asexual after that, but aromantic was just as logical. And John had told him it was fine.

It was Sherlock, he reminded himself, his own eyes now fixed out the window as he schooled his features. Of course it was fine – anything he needed from John, that’s what he would have from him. That’s how it had always been, hadn’t it?

It was all fine.


	3. A New Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot? Where did you come from and how did you eat up an entire chapter?

John spent the rest of the day up in his own room, reading. He spent most of the next day there as well.

Usually, he avoided spending too much time up there. It was stark, dull, suited to sleep but not much else. Downstairs he had his comforts: his laptop, his armchair, tea, and of course the constant frustrating entertainment that was his flat mate. Sherlock Holmes, the man he was avoiding.

It was just as well that Lestrade texted with another case late in the next afternoon. All John had really done was avoid thinking about Sherlock. It was getting increasingly difficult to continue.

“John,” Sherlock called up shortly after four o’clock. “We’ve a case!”

It was a relief, really. A distraction.

John pulled a dark blue sweater over his shirt and opened his drawer to find his Browning. He looked at the gun for a moment before deciding against it; if Sherlock wasn’t asking him to bring it, best not get back in the habit of toting it about London. Nothing good could come of that.

They were out the door and in a cab on their way to Finsbury in a matter of minutes.

“What’s Lestrade say about it then? Any details?” John asked.

“Murder,” Sherlock said simply. “Three City University students so far, all healthy, all died without warning, suspect poisoning but no toxins were found in any autopsies. The third was just found, but she fits the pattern.” He paused and glanced down at his phone.

“Link?” John asked, falling quickly back into the old pattern.

“Too many, actually. All female, ages 19 to 20, blonde, similar builds. Friends, apparently, and all were reading bioengineering, though of different cohorts.”

John nodded in understanding. Sherlock didn’t have to tell him that they may as well have all been the same person for all that the information narrowed down their suspect pool.

Not that Sherlock wouldn’t figure it out.  He was brilliant.

Midday on a weekday, the ride was brief. John was almost able to ignore the brush of Sherlock’s leg against his and concentrate on what they would find at the scene instead.

They were on the school campus soon enough, Lestrade waiting for them.

“Oh, good! Sherlock, I need you to see this,” Lestrade called as soon as they got out of the cab.

Sherlock strode past Lestrade and through the yellow police tape, a man in his element. And wasn’t that a lovely sight?

John pushed away the thought. They were at a crime scene, not some pub where he could look someone over.

“Surprised you called so quickly,” John told Lestrade.

“You’re lucky I gave him a day’s rest. We’ve been aching for the help lately,” Lestrade said. “No one else ever realized what a help he was to the Yard; with him going through my cases so quickly, we were able to relieve the other teams. Now we’re all stretched thin.”

“You didn’t have to fight to work with him, though?” John asked, his voice pitched low enough that Sherlock wouldn’t hear, even if he were paying attention.

“Just the opposite. I had orders on my desk to engage him wherever I could convince him. Documentation of clearance levels higher than mine, too,” Lestrade told him. “Didn’t expect you to have a matching set. My supervisor wouldn’t say –”

“John, I need you here!” Sherlock called, interrupting Lestrade and cutting off any question John had about that ‘matching set.’ He would have to get a look at those, though, and soon.

“Sorry, mate.” John gave Greg an apologetic look before rushing over to where Sherlock was standing. The area was taped off to foot traffic, but it was clearly a main thoroughfare under most conditions, situated on the path between two academic buildings.  

Sherlock was bent over a student fitting his earlier description:  short blonde hair, middling height, fit but not overly athletic frame. She was clothed simply in jeans and a university pullover. He pulled out a pair of gloves and began a visual examination.

“No obvious signs of struggle or injuries.” He lifted up the side of her shirt for a better view. “Though she has bruising around the hips, it looks to be at least three to four days old. Probably unrelated.”

“Everything’s related,” Sherlock corrected him.

John, knowing exactly what university sexual norms were like, looked back at him with a raised eyebrow but didn’t argue. “Slight cyanosis in the extremities, otherwise no signs of poisoning.” He knelt down to shift her a bit, looking for any hidden clues. “There’s nothing here,” he said finally. “Looks like she just keeled over. We won’t find anything until we get to the morgue.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock said, suddenly very close. John jumped and turned, seeing Sherlock bending over him.

“A bit of space maybe?” he asked pointedly.

Sherlock frowned at him, those ridiculous lips forming a perfect pout, but he backed away.

“Lestrade!” he called the DI over. “Who found her?”

“She wasn’t found. She was walking between classes, and she fell over. Scores of witnesses. Apparently, her pulse stopped within the first few minutes, and she was declared dead when the ambulance arrived.”

“CPR?” John asked.

“Tried by a passing professor.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t call PHE in about a possibly dangerous new disease?” John asked, leaning on his medical background.

The look Sherlock gave him spoke as clear as words: _Don’t be an idiot._

“We’ve mostly ruled that out, but they’ve been notified. They had their specialists running tests on the other victims, and they haven’t found any proof of illness,” Greg told them.

“They wouldn’t,” Sherlock said. “This is murder. Definitely poison.” He pursed his lips for a moment, deep in thought. “I’ll need to see the others. Are they at St. Barts?”

Lestrade nodded. “She’ll be taken there, too,” he told them. “Toxicology reports were –”

“I know,” Sherlock cut him off. “They were missing something.”

“Which is what we’re here for,” John interjected smoothly. “Anything else you can tell us, Greg?”

Sherlock huffed at John’s words and shifted his stance to put himself between John and the DI.

“Not yet. My team’s been conducting interviews with witnesses. I’ll send you those, and the ones from the previous girls by messenger this evening.”

Sherlock nodded, but it was clear he was only half listening. In fact, he was already off to hail anther cab.

John sighed. “Thanks. Have them leave it with Mrs. Hudson if we’re not back,” he told Greg before running after Sherlock.

The cab ride to St. Bart’s was silent. Sherlock was deep in thought, rousing himself only once to check a text, but not even to respond.

John, for his part, kept his gaze out the window. He wracked his brain for anything he could think of from his medical training that would explain the girls’ deaths – surely someone had mentioned such an covert poison, a topical one perhaps? But none were coming to mind.

“Could it be topical?” John asked tentatively, cutting the silence. “Lethal dosage coming from prolonged contact with something doused in it – a bit of jewelry maybe?”

Sherlock looked at him with a hint of pride. “Possible, but the contact sight would likely be seen in the autopsy. I was thinking a delayed response; they may have ingested the poison hours or days before it ran its course.”

John nodded and returned to his thoughts. Not that he could recall any poisons like that with these symptoms, but he expanded his mental search.

He had barely gone through the basics from his classes when the cab stopped before St. Bart’s. It had been ages since he was here last, and he wasn’t expecting the jolt of memory it triggered. For a moment, he almost saw the image of Sherlock falling –

He looked to his left and saw his flat mate paying the cabbie, safe and sound. He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

Sherlock noticed. He noticed everything. He looked at John with oddly, brows knit tight together and lips pressed thin. John wondered if he was going to say something about it for a moment, but he glanced out the window instead.

“I’ll see you tonight. I’d tell you to give my regards to my brother, but I’d rather you didn’t.”

John looked out the window, following Sherlock’s gaze. He sighed; sure enough, there was a black car sitting not five meters from them, apparently waiting for him. Right. He exited the cab and loitered on the street, watching Sherlock disappear into the hospital. If they wanted him, they could bloody well come to him. He wasn’t sure he wanted much to do with their boss, not tonight.

Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft had come to see him after the fall, of course. Had offered to pay for the flat for him, offered him the inheritance Sherlock had apparently left solely to him, even offered his condolences. John hadn’t accepted any of it. He had been too broken up; unable to face his dead mate’s brother, he had to leave the restaurant where they were meeting in an angry, broken huff.

He hadn’t seen Mycroft again, not until just a week ago. It was a year after the fall, a year of grieving gone and him none the better for it, despite the new bedsit, the dates, the therapist, all in the name of trying to move on.

When that black car came, John had tried to ignore it. He had even ducked into a narrow alleyway where he knew it couldn’t follow. The only reason he finally decided to come along was because Mycroft himself had stepped out of the car at that point and asked him to come. It wasn’t the way he asked, which was really more of a polite order than a request, but the fact that he had made the trip himself. And, to be honest, it seemed like a fleeting connection to his time with Sherlock.

In that car, Mycroft had revealed to him Sherlock’s great secret: that he was still alive. John had raged at that – he didn’t even remember what he said, but he was certain Mycroft was lying. Mycroft let him. He sat patiently while John got it all out of his system, and then calmly explained how Sherlock had survived – how Molly had helped, the trick to stop his pulse, the way Mycroft had arranged bystanders to keep him away from the scene until Sherlock could be taken away. Briefly, he told John why Sherlock had to do it, how their lives were at risk, and that the danger had now passed.

John wondered who had engineered that kindness, of telling him first, instead of letting it be a surprise.

And then Mycroft had taken him to Sherlock. Sherlock, who he still thought was dead. Sherlock, whose first words were to scold him for leaving Baker Street, but whose second were that he missed him, and whose third were a genuine apology.  And if everything wasn’t all as it once was after that, at least it was close.

John didn’t want to go in that car again. He never did. But when it rolled up beside him, he took a deep breath and slipped inside.

 

…

 

At least Mycroft no longer felt the need to terrorize John in dark warehouses. John found himself led to a private dining room in the Diogenes Club, where he was assured that he may speak as long as his voice did not carry outside.

The room itself was decorated more as a study than a dining room. Although its only furniture was a handsome dining table big enough for four and the accompanying mahogany chairs, the walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves, and the picture window at the far end had plush padded bench perfect for reading. It was an odd choice, but one John found quite comfortable.

Mycroft wasn’t there yet, so he chose a book he already knew and liked and made himself comfortable at the table.

He was just getting into the novel when Mycroft appeared, a server with two plates behind him.

“‘Brave New World.’ Excellent choice,” Mycroft said by way of greeting.

“I’ve always liked Huxley,” John said, putting the book aside.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty of ordering us dinner. Knowing Sherlock, he won’t think to allow time to eat until your case is solved. I thought you may need some fortification before that.”

A fine rare steak was placed in front of him, garnished with potatoes and vegetables. When he looked up, he saw Mycroft sitting down to an identical meal.

“I trust you won’t tell my brother of this indiscretion. He does love to pick at my diet.”

 “We’ll keep it out secret then, shall we?” he asked, only half sarcastic.

“I apologize for taking you from a case, John,” Mycroft started with a complete lie as he cut through his steak. John ignored it. “But I wanted a word with you in private. How is my brother now that he’s back?”

“Like nothing’s changed,” John told him. “Same old Sherlock.” He took a bite of his steak, and almost closed his eyes in delight. It wasn’t often he had anything of this quality anymore; without Sherlock’s connections or penchant for buying them meals, he had been living mostly on a diet of tea and take out.

“Yes, actually, that’s what talk about,” Mycroft said. “He really isn’t.”

“Isn’t?” John prompted.

“The same,” Mycroft clarified. “You see, my brother has been through much this year. I’m sure he would prefer to tell you the details himself, but do keep that in mind. You weren’t the only one affected by this past year.”

 “And what is this in aid of?” John asked, getting rather fed up with the Holmes brothers’ cryptic conversations. “Do you really think I’m going to do something to upset or hurt Sherlock? Do you think I don’t know him well enough by now to avoid that?”

“Quite the opposite,” Mycroft said, carefully enunciating each syllable with that posh accent. “I think you knew him well, and some things you once believed on are no longer true. I’d like to ensure that my brother doesn’t hurt you.”

It took an instant for John to realize it. Mycroft knew. Or, if he didn’t know, he knew that there was the potential for them to shag. He was trying to warn John.

“I think we’ll be fine,” John said, smooth as he could. “After all we’ve been through, there’s not much Sherlock could throw at me that I couldn’t handle.”

 “Of that I have no doubt,” Mycroft said, almost sincerely. “I merely wished to clarify the situation for you. And once again, to apologize for everything you’ve been put through this past year.”

“Me and Sherlock both,” John said darkly. “I haven’t forgotten how Moriarty found out about Sherlock’s history.”

Mycroft lowered his eyes, guilt clear on his face. “Nor have I,” he said softly. “If I could take that back –”

“Yeah,” John interrupted, suddenly not interested in continuing this conversation. “I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson, then?”

“Thank you, John. I have,” Mycroft said, and this time John knew he was sincere.

They ate in silence for a few long minutes. It was surreal, sharing a meal with Mycroft Holmes. When it was clear Mycroft had said all he was going to, John asked, “The security clearance. Was that you?”

“Of course. I doubt Sherlock will keep many secrets from you, even Official Secrets. Better to get it out of the way now than to have to clean it up later.”

“What level?” John asked.

“Top Secret,” Mycroft said casually. “Nothing I don’t trust you with.”

Top Secret clearance, thrown about like a favor. John bit back an impressed whistle.

“I don’t want it,” he said. And he didn’t. It was one thing to have Sherlock back in his life, in his home, but this was too much. This was – well, it precluded a level of danger John had once loved, but one he wasn’t sure he could see again.

“I’m sorry, but it’s necessary,” Mycroft told him. “There may come a time when my brother has to work with us again. If he does, he’ll be bringing secret documents home with him, I’m sure – there’s really no stopping him. I hope you can see how much better it is to make sure you have all the right privileges to be there with them now instead of waiting until questions are asked after the fact.”

John stared at Mycroft for a moment, ready to argue but not sure how. As usual, Holmes’ logic was flawless. Finally, he asked, “And will anything else be expected of me?”

“What Sherlock always expects, I imagine,” Mycroft said flippantly.

John gave him a hard stare, the same he gave Sherlock when he claimed to have forgotten to put the human brain samples in sealed containers before putting them in the refrigerator. Again. He really could see right through the both of them sometimes.

“Very well, you have my word: _I_ will not be asking anything out of the ordinary from you, nor will those under my limited power. I can’t tell you more than that, as it will depend entirely upon my brother and his decisions to take a job or involve you in it.”

John sighed. Good enough. “Thank you,” he said.

John finished off his meal, savoring the last piece of the tender meat. Really, he had forgotten what good food was like; perhaps he could get Sherlock to go to Angelo’s again after this case.

“There’s a car waiting for you downstairs,” Mycroft told him, walking him to the door. “Would you like it to bring you to the hospital or to Baker Street? My brother is still at the morgue.”

“Baker Street, thanks,” he said. Best not to be stuck in a small lab with Sherlock and Molly for the rest of the evening.

“Very well,” Mycroft said with a nod. “It was good to see you, John. Thank you for coming.”

The door was closed behind him before he could respond. John stood there for a moment, looking at it, before nodding to himself and making his way out of the club and to the waiting car.

It was a quick ride, and the flat was empty when John walked in. Just as he suspected. He made his way upstairs for a nap. They were on a case – he couldn’t predict what trouble Sherlock would get them into when he got back, and John wanted to make sure he was ready for anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really trying with my vocabulary, but it’s a bit of a trial for a girl from New Jersey with no Brit-picking. Sorry about any errors. 
> 
> Next up: Shmoop to go with the plot & angst. Maybe sex if I can fit it in, though that may have to wait for chapter 5. In any case, it's coming. ^_^


	4. Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Description: I thought this would be a good chapter to bring in the titular song of this fic, 'Distance' by Christina Perri. I suggest giving it a listen before reading the chapter: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gBBOgWjnl4M
> 
> When I started, this was actually the only song that inspired me. Since then, the scope of the story has expanded, and with it comes a whole playlist. I'll link it as a youtube playlist when I finish the entire thing. ^_^

A frustrated Sherlock Holmes entered the flat just after 10 pm that night, a scowl on his face and a box of biological samples from the mortuary under one arm.

He didn’t pay any attention to the state of the flat (lights off, silent, parcel of interviews on the kitchen table, unopened) as he stormed in. The samples went on the kitchen table beside the parcel and his coat was tossed onto John’s armchair, which was suspiciously unoccupied. Was John still out with his brother?

Preposterous; Mycroft wouldn’t keep John for more than an hour, and John wouldn’t stand for it if he did. Besides, the closet door was ajar; John had already hung up his coat, then.

Sherlock grabbed a carefully labeled box from the living room wall and went about the job of unpacking his chemistry set. A year away had done it no harm, thanks in part to the exceptional care John had taken in packing it. Holding back tears the whole time, no doubt – a pang of guilt rang through Sherlock.

Sentiment. He pushed it away. He was on a case, and would not be distracted from the Work.

Besides, he was here now, wasn’t he?

Several chemicals needed to be dumped after a year of decay, and he carried out the chore quickly, replacing them with the extra he had filched from the morgue stores. He was even careful enough not to get any of the helianthin on the teacups.

Chemicals sorted, he briefly considered beginning on the samples. But no, he had been with them all night, and the interviews would give him more new information. Possibly they would give him the link he needed to bring the three murders together.

But first he needed to find his blogger. The flat was cavernous without him, especially after Sherlock’s last workspace. And a living sounding board was much preferable to his skull.

“John?” he called out, not expecting an answer. If John was within hearing distance, he would already be in here, asking how Sherlock fared in the morgue.

Unless he was still pouting about whatever had set him off yesterday, possibly Sherlock’s rudeness to Lestrade. Surely he wouldn’t still be avoiding him when there’s a case about, though.

Then again, this was John. The Work was not always his first priority. Inconvenient.

Sherlock did a cursory search of the floor – of course he wouldn’t be there, if he wasn’t in the kitchen or living room, and the bathroom door was open – before going up to the second floor. He avoided the loudest parts of the stair by habit, but he still made enough noise for John to be aware of his presence.

He would have stopped outside of John’s bedroom door, but it was already open. John must have been distracted when he came in. Sherlock peaked inside and found John sleeping on his bed, curled up and facing the door.

No, not sleeping. His breathing was too shallow, his muscles just a bit too tense. Of course, John was a veteran with symptoms of PTSD; he couldn’t sleep through Sherlock’s approach. He didn’t want to be awake yet then, or he didn’t want to see Sherlock. Either way, he was feigning sleep.

He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry; he found it hard to hold onto any negative emotion regarding John. The memory of John’s sleeping form beside him just two nights ago flooded over his body: the tired arms wrapped around his torso, the sweetly timid fingers in his hair, the solid assurance of a heartbeat against his skin.

For a brief moment, Sherlock wanted to crawl into the bed beside him and hold him there until he fell back to sleep. He took a breath, dismissing it from his mind. Those were things he could not have. Not as he wanted them.

No matter. John was there. Sherlock knew where he was and the flat felt fuller, more like home as a result. He would not be distracted by the silence as he worked.

He should be on his way down to start reading through the interviews already. The case would not wait, and there may be another death if he wasted much time, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Instead he watched John for a few long moments, cataloguing his features as the muscles of his face relaxed. John Watson – _his_ John Watson – he had spent so much of the past year worrying that he wouldn’t come back, especially those last few months. He could hardly remember why now. Of course John was here; he belonged here.

If only ‘here’ was down in the master bedroom with Sherlock, instead of his own small room.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, mouth and eyes both turning down. That train of thought did no one any good, especially when he had a case downstairs to attend to. He would delete it. Possibly also delete the events from the other night; that would be the safest route.

He turned and headed downstairs. He would take care of everything after this case, when he had the time to reorganize his hard drive. For now, he had a score of interviews to read. The Work would not wait, and but it would distract him for a good while.

 

…

 

John was surprised not to be disturbed until the next morning. Although Sherlock had come and found him during the night, he hadn’t tried to rouse him or get him to go chasing a criminal.

Of course, he knew that meant nothing good. Sherlock was probably still mired in research, unable to come to a successful conclusion. Whether or not he would be snappish or excited would depend on his frustration with the case, but regardless John only had so long before Sherlock blew into his room demanding he join him in finding a suspect.

So he made himself rise and shower early the next morning, readying himself for a potentially exciting day.

Of course, being prepared meant there would be no emergency. After making tea and toast (Sherlock would have neither, though he laid them out beside him), he settled into his armchair to continue reading his own copy of _Brave New World_ while Sherlock sat on the floor, piles of interviews scattered around him, occasionally muttering to himself.

As morning stretched to afternoon, the piles began consolidating, eventually morphing into just two: one large stack of rejected candidates, and one final witness.

John knew the request was coming before it was out of Sherlock’s mouth. “I think I have him. We need to interview him to be sure, though. Lestrade’s team was weak on the details.”

“Who?” John asked.

“A student: Adam Johnson. An American, and close friend of all three victims, reading Biochemistry at the University. I suspect he was sleeping with at least one if not all of them.”

“Right,” John said, putting his book aside and getting up to fetch his coat. “Dangerous?”

“Not extremely,” Sherlock said, donning his coat and scarf like a mantle. “Leave the Browning. Campus security may find it objectionable.”

John nodded his understanding, and then Sherlock was out the door. John followed him down to the street and let him hail a cab; they always came so quickly for him.

Sherlock was on his phone as soon as they were in the cab, texting Lestrade no doubt.

John spent his time trying very hard not to watch his flat mate. It wouldn’t do for Sherlock to catch him staring, possibly sussing out John’s feelings, so instead he kept his eyes on the streets outside.

“What did my brother have to say last night?” Sherlock asked, surprising John. When he hadn’t asked this morning, John had assumed he had forgotten.

“Nothing overly interesting,” John only half-lied, “He bought me dinner – good steak – and we talked about my new security clearances. Apparently partnering myself with you has its perks.”

“You had dinner with him? Did you check it for poison first?” Sherlock asked scathingly. He reached out for John’s wrist to check his pulse, but John pulled it back aggressively.

“I’m fine, thank you. I think I’d notice if I had any symptoms you could detect. Also, Mycroft is not going to poison me,” John said, still staring out the window. “Besides, even if I did check, I don’t think I’d be able to find most of the poisons your brother has access to.”

Sherlock went silent for a moment. “Hmmm. Perhaps he would know something about the poison the killer used,” he mused. “I’ll have to pay his office a visit, preferably when he’s not there.”

“You do that,” John said, only half paying attention. He was more concerned with controlling his breathing and the flush that was creeping up his face. Why did Sherlock have to be so bloody tactile with him all the time?

The cab went quiet again as Sherlock returned to his thoughts, hopefully about poisons and breaking into his brother’s offices.

When they finally arrived in Finsbury, near half an hour later, John was getting very bored with watching the streets of London, but he had managed to control his reactions – as much as he could expect to, anyway.

“You’re distracted,” Sherlock finally said when they got out.

“It’s fine,” John told him, hoping he would drop the subject.

He knew better of course. “Not if it distracts you from the case. What is it?”

“It’s nothing, Sherlock,” John assured him.

“Better to get it out now, before we go in there,” Sherlock told him, that commanding note in his voice.

Not that Cpt. John Watson was likely to be persuaded by Sherlock’s demands, not when he didn’t want to be. “Look, I’m not going to talk about it. I’m fine – I’m not about to let some kid serve me tea that may be poisoned just because my mind’s on someone else.”

And that was a mistake. “Who?” Sherlock asked imperiously.

“No one,” John insisted.

“You said someone, John. Clearly that would indicate the opposite of ‘no one.’”

“Really, Sherlock, are we on a case or not? Because I think we have an interview to conduct,” John pointed out.

Those were exactly the correct words. Sherlock was usually the one to insist on concentrating on the work, and it startled him enough to hear John take that role that he backed down. “Right. I’ll ask the questions. You get a good look at the place, make sure we’re alone and not in danger. Don’t let on that he’s a suspect.”

“So business as usual,” John commented. He could do this. This was just like every other case they’d been on. No reason for nerves, even if the nerves were for Sherlock and not the case.

He followed Sherlock to the dormitories, shoulders back and head high.

It only took a few minutes to find the appropriate building, and no time at all to find the correct door.

Adam Johnson was a tall, slight boy, no more than nineteen years old. His dark hair was styled to be artfully out of place, his thick eyebrows were just a bit too clean to be natural, and his tan skin was just a shade too dark for his bright green eyes. He was a perfect example of exactly planned, elegant imperfection. Fifteen years ago he would have been just John’s type. Even now, though he had no interest in killers almost two decades his junior, he noticed.

“Hi, can I help you?” the kid asked politely, a fake smile forced onto his face. He looked between them, and suddenly the smile became something more sincere.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner, Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock introduced them quickly. “We’d like to come in and talk to you about several deaths on campus – I understand the girls were friends of yours?”

The smile fell immediately at Sherlock’s words. “Yeah, come in,” he said, opening the door to usher them into the one-room dorm. It was small, with only a bed, dresser, desk and computer chair to furnish it. “I knew them. We were all friends. We studied together a lot.”

“Must be hard, having them all gone like that,” John said sympathetically.

“Yeah, it’s been hard for all of us,” Johnson said, his eyes set on John. He moved a fraction of an inch closer, shoulders facing John. Apparently John was playing the good cop here.

“We just want to ask you a couple of questions,” John said as kindly as he could, reminding himself that even if this may be a murderer, there was a distinct possibility that he was just a kid who lost three friends.

“When was the last time you saw Carly McIntyre?” Sherlock asked, naming the latest victim.

“Not since Saturday night. She came over to talk about Emily and Alexia, and we wound up watching a couple of movies together. I know she had a study date Sunday, and we were supposed to meet up again yesterday,” he told them, his voice cracking at the end. “I told the police all of this already – is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” John told him, subtly shifting his stance in case the boy decided to make an ill-advised attack.

“Did you hear from Carly yesterday morning before she became sick?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I was meeting about my research paper with Dr. Newman all of yesterday morning,” Johnson told them. Even John noted the blush that colored the boy’s features as he spoke.

Sherlock nodded. “I think we have all we need. Let’s go, John.”

“Thanks,” John said to the boy, keeping up his act. “Really, for talking to us. I know it must be hard.”

“No problem,” Johnson said. He took a card from his pocket and handed it to John. It had his name and number printed in a bold black font. “I’m not sure what he got from our conversation here, but let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

“Yeah, will do. Thanks again,” John said, pocketing the card.

He silently walked with Sherlock all the way out of the building before asking, “And what was that about? Not our man?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said. “He’s gay. Closeted, but not hiding it particularly well. And his grief was sincere. He wasn’t responsible.”

“Thought I got that feeling from him,” John agreed.

“You should have. He was practically panting at your feet. I’m surprised he didn’t slip you his number. It didn’t exactly help that you were being so nice to him.”

 “Really? And here I thought he was just intimidated by you,” John said.

Sherlock smiled humorlessly. “There was that, too.”

“Of course there was,” John said. “That’s why I always have to be the nice one.”

“Yes, well, it was obvious in any case; did you see his pupils dilate and his blush at the mention of his professor? He was hoping for something more strenuous than a study session yesterday morning.”

“You’re still brilliant, you know,” John said, the words as spontaneous as the first time he said them.

Sherlock looked at him, a real smile blooming on his face. “It’s good to be back.”

John looked at him taking it all in for a moment before answering with his own smile. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” he agreed. “Where to now?”

“Home,” Sherlock told him. “Since those idiots at Scotland Yard can’t be trusted to get the barest details down, I’ll have to go over the interviews again with this new information.”

“Home, then,” John agreed.

 

…

 

Sherlock was predictably insufferable that night. It was almost a comfort that he had changed so little.

As soon as they were home, he dove back into the interviews, searching for some unknown link to pull all three deaths together.

John did what he always did and tried to take care of him. Of course, the supper he made went untouched, but at least Sherlock accepted an endless supply of tea without a word.

For the most part, John spent the evening on his laptop, updating his blog with the story of the killer they had caught just three days prior – without mention of the rest of the night’s activities, of course – and answering the slow stream of comments he had received since reopening the page. Every now and again Sherlock would have him look up something or other online, but aside from those requests, the flat was silent.

So much so, in fact, that John didn’t realize at first when Sherlock nodded off to sleep on the couch. It was only reasonable – he probably hadn’t slept in close to 40 hours, and he had only ingested tea in all that time – but it was still a bit of a surprise to see the consulting detective lying prone and oblivious to the world at just 11 pm.

John couldn’t help smiling when he saw him there, still in his trousers and shirt, curled up facing the back of the couch. This brilliant, abrasive, dangerous man looked so vulnerable there.

He nipped into Sherlock’s room and grabbed an extra blanket from the bottom of the bed, a dark purple cashmere knit from the feel of it. He opened it as silently as possible and spread it over the consulting detective, unsure if he was more motivated to protect him from a chill or from the rest of the world.

He opened his mouth, for a moment thinking to confess his thoughts to the sleeping man. He just needed to say the words in his head aloud – for some part of Sherlock to hear that he loved him.

He stopped himself. If he said those words, it would be while Sherlock was awake and attentive. No matter that he wouldn’t return the feeling; John would not let their friendship devolve into whispered confessions when the other couldn’t hear. It felt far too much like talking to a headstone for his comfort.

He lowered his head and took a breath, taking control of his emotions before turning away and taking himself upstairs to find his own bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this would be sweet, but then it turned into something with a bit more bittersweet angst. Really, these characters have minds of their own...I hope the love in their friendship still came out.
> 
> I do, however, promise sex next chapter. It was supposed to be this chapter, but then dialogue happened, and suddenly the chapter was long enough without it!


	5. Unexpected Developments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this took so long. Midterms came up just as I was starting the chapter, and it took quite a while for me to find the time to finish it. Unfortunately, as finals are right around the corner, I'm not sure how much I'm going to be able to write until after the end of the term in December. Hopefully, this will be enough to tide you all over. <3
> 
> Please remember that all characters here are fictitious. Anyone actually at the City University has absolutely nothing to do with this fic. At all. They're all OMC & OFC.

 

The last thing John expected the next day was a text from Lestrade. It was too soon for one – all the other deaths had been at least a week apart.

_Need your help. Another victim, male. Sherlock’s not answering my texts.  – GL_

John rushed downstairs to find Sherlock exactly where he had left him after breakfast: at the kitchen table, looking through a microscope and taking copious notes without looking up.

“Oh, good. John, could you get my phone for me?” Sherlock asked.

“Where is it?” John asked, hoping it was not on Sherlock’s body.

“Couch,” Sherlock told him.

John looked over and sure enough, the phone was lying on a cushion, lit up with the alert of Lestrade’s text.

“We have another victim,” John told Sherlock, handing him the phone.

“So I see,” Sherlock muttered, putting the phone in one pocket and sweeping around the table to put whatever had been under the microscope in the fridge. John probably didn’t want to know.

A manic smile crept across Sherlock’s face, one John recognized with glee. The game was on.

He went for the jackets instead, taking both out and handing Sherlock his as the detective passed on his way to the door. For a brief moment, Sherlock paused and looked down at John as though he was about to say something. Or possibly John imagined that, because then he was in his coat and out the door, leaving John to follow in his wake.

 

…

 

The crime scene was tense, and no less so for their presence. John could see a couple of officers freeze, the blood rushing from their face as they saw Sherlock for the first time. They had been warned, he was sure, by those on the last case or in the office when he and Sherlock visited, but he could understand their reactions. Even he sometime caught himself wondering if we wasn’t seeing a ghost.

Donavan was the rare exception of course, her wonder completely eclipsed by spite. She didn’t even bother saying hello, just came up and started with the insults while Lestrade wasn’t around to hear.

“Don’t you work, Watson? I thought you had a respectable job now,” Donavan sneered, eying John as though she was considering throwing him out of the scene.

“He is working,” Sherlock shot back. “Don’t you remember, he’s my partner? Or did you lose the last vestiges of cognitive power while I was gone?”

“I took leave of absence from the clinic. Not that it’s any of your business,” John told her. He would like to see her try to find a reason to keep him off the scene.

Instead of responding, she looked at them for a long, calculating moment before turning away and back to the scene. John watched as she conferred with a group of officers before stalking off. “Bloody cow,” he spat under his breath. “She’s worse than she used to be.”

“No wonder. She thought convicting me would jump start her career,” Sherlock said blandly. “She thinks she should be Detective Inspector by now, and instead she’s barely holding onto her position. She probably wouldn’t even be here if she weren’t sleeping with a higher up. She blames me for that.”

“She’s an idiot then,” John said firmly. Sherlock hummed agreeably before letting the subject drop.

An officer John wasn’t familiar with – possible new; it had been a year – approached them to lead them up to the same building they had visited the previous afternoon.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Lestrade said as soon as he saw them. “Hell of a day. We almost didn’t catch this one: boy was drunk with a mate last night. Fell asleep and never woke up. Almost looked like acute alcohol poisoning.”

“What makes you think it’s related?” Sherlock asked as they followed the DI into the building.

“We’ll have to get the toxicology reports back to be sure, but he was friends with all the girls. In some of their classes. Even dated one.”

“Name?” Sherlock pressed.

“Adam Johnson. You’ll recognize him from the interviews we sent over.”

John felt the blood drain from his face. He wasn’t bothered by death anymore, not usually, but Adam Johnson? The boy they had met just yesterday, who had been chatting him up? There was no getting used to something like that.

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, we met him,” he said matter-of-factly, taking out his magnifying glass to look at some clue invisible to John.

“You what?”

“We met him. Yesterday. We popped by to say hello, in colloquial parlance. Do I need to remind you how much I hate to repeat myself?”

“You interviewed a person of interest without telling me? Permission to bring you in or not, can you at least _try_ to remember that I’m the Detective Inspector on this case?”

“I told you I had a theory and that it didn’t pan out. I thought even your mind could deduce that John and I did some legwork of our own,” Sherlock pointed out, as though his logic were perfectly rational.

John hid an amused smile and instead gave Greg what he hoped was something between a sympathetic and an apologetic look.

The DI just sighed. “Next time, just tell me, yeah? At least let me prepare backup?”

“Oh, very well,” Sherlock agreed.

“Thanks for that,” Greg said sarcastically. Sherlock caught it, John knew, but he pretended not to notice.

He followed as they made their way back up to the dorm room. It was just as it had been the day before: small and just a bit sloppy, but overall average for a student. Sherlock started walking around, ignoring the body and looking at each piece of detritus from a life not half lived. He even went so far as to peer through the poor lad’s journal, looking for clues.

“Of course!” Sherlock exclaimed eventually.

“Of course what?” John asked.

“Lestrade! What were the victims reading?”

“Bioengineering. All of them, except this one. He was a chemistry student.”

“And what did they have in common, except perhaps the same taste in men?” Sherlock prodded.

“They were all friends?” Lestrade hazarded a guess.

“Wrong!” Sherlock exclaimed, his arms thrown out as he spun around. “They all had the same professor. They all studied under Professor Newman, a highly respected and well published biochemist.”

“Yes. We interviewed him after the third, with all the girls’ professors.  Are you suggesting -?”

“Then you’ll remember from the interviews his opinions of women in the sciences?” Sherlock prompted.

“He – well, I don’t remember him saying anything about that,” Lestrade admitted.

“You read but you don’t comprehend!” Sherlock exclaimed, putting his hands on Lestrade’s shoulders. “He mentioned, more than once, that this was a dangerous field for young women to get into. A ‘masculine’ field he said, so sad that they didn’t make it through. Didn’t you see the over compensation?”

“Are you suggesting that Dr. Randolph Newman killed these girls?” Lestrade asked carefully. “Because he didn’t like women in bioengineering?”

“The feminization of the sciences!” Sherlock explained excitedly. “If you had done any research on his professional opinions, you would have seen it – the juxtaposition of his interviews with his actual views on women. And when young Adam propositioned him the other day – well, he thought the same thing about homosexuals didn’t he?”

“And now you’re saying Adam was gay?” Lestrade asked. “We had witnesses who were very clear that he was dating Emily –”

 “Are you actually suggesting that beards are a new phenomenon in the closeted gay community?” Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade closed his mouth and motioned for Sherlock to continue, ready to hear what the consulting detective had to say.

“He was all but begging to get into John’s pants yesterday,” Sherlock explained with a wave of his hand. “Closeted. Penchant for older, attractive men. You’ll find Professor Newman is quite popular among the women on campus. Not shy about taking them up on their offers, either.”

John felt his face flush at the casual compliment, but did his best to ignore it. “But how did he poison them?” he asked.

“Think, John! Who was he?” Sherlock turned to him with a flourish and put his hands on John’s biceps, his face looming in front of John’s.

“A professor of biochemistry,” John said slowly. “Would he – would he have access to the same poisons we were talking about yesterday, in the cab?”

“Yes. Yes! Precisely! Excellent deduction!” Sherlock crowed, more excited with each word.

John couldn’t help beaming. Even if he didn’t glow under Sherlock’s rare praise (and of course he did), it was hard not to get swept up in his excitement.

In one graceful move, Sherlock released John and turned to the officers, phone materializing in his hands. “Lestrade, we need Professor Newman’s office and regular hours. And contact Mycroft about a second autopsy.”

“He’s in the sciences building. Office 415. Should be there now,” Lestrade said, looking down at his own phone. He must have texted the question to NSY as soon as Sherlock mentioned the name. “But why Mycroft?”

“The poison, of course!” Sherlock said. His face suddenly fell into a smirk. “We could procure it from the professor’s notes, but I was under the impression you’d be pleased with an excuse to contact my brother.”

Lestrade and – well, _Mycroft?_ Mycroft may have shown himself as a bit more _human_ , for lack of a better word, in the last year, but John couldn’t imagine his friend being interested in the cold, calculating Holmes brother.

“I’m not sure I want to know what that means,” Greg said carefully, clearly confused.

Sherlock strode up to him and raised one eyebrow, studying him carefully. “Oh, you don’t _know_ , do you?” he asked, his face breaking into an impish smile. “Interesting.”

“What don’t I know, Sherlock?” Greg asked carefully.

“Not important,” Sherlock said flippantly, nervous energy returning to his limbs as he turned away, that coat of his flying out around him dramatically. “After all, we have a case. Come on! To the sciences building!”

And with that, he stormed out of the room, leaving John and the officers alone in the room. As one, they all rushed to follow.

“Sherlock!” Greg called when they caught up with him just outside the building. “I think we can take it from here.  Let us take him in, and you can question him in a bit? Where it’s not so dangerous?”

“Nonsense, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, clearly surprised by the DI’s suggestion. “John and I will come with you. It’s important that I see his office in any case.”

“I’m not – I just don’t feel comfortable bringing you two into danger, yeah? We’ve a whole force of police officers here, no reason to bring civilians to fetch a suspect.”

Sherlock stopped short and turned to stare down at Greg. “You need us,” Sherlock said after a long moment. “You won’t have the evidence you need without me, and I won’t have the medical information I need without John.”

“And I need warrants before I can use any of your evidence. Just wait until I have him in the station, yeah? You can give him a proper interview then.”

Sherlock glanced over at John for a moment, a calculating look on his face before answering Lestrade. “Very well. But we’re coming with you to collect him. I don’t want to miss anything.”

Greg took off his hat and ran one hand through his increasingly grey hair. “Alright, but let me take the lead. Let’s break as few rules as possible.”

Sherlock’s lips turned down into a pout, and John could almost hear the exclamation of _Boring!_ that he knew the consulting detective was holding back.

Fortunately, he just turned around and started off down the street again, only glancing back at John following him.

 

…

 

Apparently, serial murdering biochemistry professors were mildly more dangerous than John or Lestrade gave them credit for. But only by a bit.

Dr. Newman recognized Sherlock as soon as they entered his office (a problem in Sherlock’s line of work). It was apparent in the way he tensed up and grabbed for something behind his desk surreptitiously.

His smile was forced when he offered for Lestrade and Sherlock to take the two seats in front of his desk. They declined politely, and the three of them positioned themselves between the professor and the door, ensuring that he couldn’t get out once he knew what they were there for. Three other officers waited in the hall, ready to come in if needed.

“We’d actually like you to come to New Scotland Yard with us,” Lestrade explained officially. “We have some questions you we’d like to ask you in connection to the deaths of four students on campus.” John could see Sherlock’s eyes darting around the room, taking in every detail as Lestrade talked.

“Four? I thought it was just the three girls,” Dr. Newman said, not rising from his own chair behind his desk. There was a certain haughtiness to his tone that made John want to punch him.

“A fourth was found this morning,” Lestrade told him.

John saw it a fraction of a second before the others did, when the professor flexed his right arm getting ready for action. He rushed in as the professor raised a small plastic packet and readied it to throw.

John had no idea what the packet could contain, but he was certain that it couldn’t be good coming from a man who apparently specialized in poisons. (And what was it about serial killers and their dramatics? Couldn’t one just pretend he was innocent, or confess easily for once?) He grabbed at the man’s wrist, slamming it against the wall behind him and possibly breaking it in the process. He couldn’t say he cared as he felt the crunch of bones beneath his hand. He used his other arm to press the man’s chest into the wall to immobilize him.

It was pitifully easy. The professor was a soft academic type, obviously not used to physical altercations, and even struggling he was easy to hold.

“Wright! Morris! Parker! Backup needed, _now_ ,” Greg shouted behind him, already moving up to help John turn the man around and force him into cuffs.

Sherlock was right behind him, eagerly plucking the packet out of the man’s hands.

“Oi, that’s evidence!” Greg barked. John couldn’t see what Sherlock was doing with the packet, but he smiled wryly nonetheless.

“Please, Lestrade, I’m not about to open a packet of unknown chemicals without proper precautions,” Sherlock snapped. “Though I think we know it’s nonlethal; he hasn’t a gas mask to protect himself. Likely just a smoke bomb or similar, as he thought that would have helped him get away.”

“Just be careful. _Please_ ,” Lestrade asked wearily.

It all ended rather quickly after that: the police took the professor easily, with evidence enough to hold him on charges. Sherlock was smiling the whole time. Of course he was – a puzzle solved, with a jolt of adrenaline at the end. This was his element.

And god help him, but John loved it, too.

 

…

 

By the time they made their way back to 221b that night, Sherlock was practically itching to get inside. It had taken far too long to get back to the flat after the arrest was made – and what a brilliant arrest it was! That was a deduction not even _he_ should be expected to make!

They had had to go back to NSY with Lestrade of course to give statement; apparently the rule that that could only be delayed after midnight or if one of them was injured was still intact, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. And then they had gone to a new highly rated Japanese restaurant to celebrate, as Sherlock hadn’t eaten in a couple of days and he had grown quite fond of sushi in his year away.

It was almost ten when they got home: not unreasonably late by anyone’s standards, but far later than he wanted to be out. Now that the case was over he craved his rediscovered home, time alone with John and perhaps his violin. Nothing else should distract him from those comforts.

John had been perfect, of course. His instincts had not been diminished for a year away from the work, and he had almost caught up with Sherlock’s deductions. Sherlock looked back at his flat mate as he entered their sitting room, coat half off already.

John was smiling, practically beaming. His cheeks were no longer flushed by adrenaline, but he held himself proudly, back straight and hands steady, every movement announcing his vitality. Perfect.

Sherlock had given his last year for this man, keeping him safe. This was exactly what he had pictured coming back to: _his_ John in their flat. He should be in Sherlock’s bed as well.

Sherlock was not well known for controlling his impulses, especially here, in his own home. And at the moment, he truly didn’t want to make the effort.

He tossed his coat on his chair and turned on his heels, facing John as he hung up his own coat. He only gave him a moment before he closed the space between them, as he had after their first case back, and kissed him soundly on the lips.

He expected to be pushed off of course – he was still a genius, although he was certain his current actions did not reflect that well. But John was welcoming and compliant when Sherlock pushed him into the closet door. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close and opening his mouth to Sherlock’s questing tongue.

Sherlock had done this many times before, at uni and for cases. It was at least temporarily engaging, and Sherlock quite liked having men in his bed, as long as they understood his distaste for sentiment. Sherlock had all but given it up when he had started taking cases, devoting his energy to the puzzles they provided instead.

None of those experiences where anywhere near as interesting as a simple kiss with John. Not only was he responsive in a way that made Sherlock hard and aching, but he was _John._ Sherlock wanted to know everything about him: every taste, every reaction, every sound. Sherlock ran his fingers down John’s sides, cataloguing the places that made him press into Sherlock’s fingers and those that made him gasp.

He could memorize this now. Every allowance John made, he would take advantage of. He would record every moment and store each observation in his mind palace, to be conjured up whenever he wished. Surely Sherlock could have that; even John couldn’t begrudge him it, not if he was allowing this.

Sherlock dipped his head to lap at John’s neck, his lips moving in tandem with John’s rising pulse. John let his head fall back against the wall, moaning, fists bunching up in Sherlock’s shirt. Interesting. Sherlock bit experimentally, just below John’s ear.

John hissed in a long breath, his whole body going tight. Sherlock kissed the bit skin, soothing it.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he managed after a moment. “Never a dull moment.”

Sherlock recognized the joke for what it was, but he didn’t laugh. Instead he started unbuttoning John’s shirt pressing his lips to the skin exposed beneath and cataloging the scent of John’s skin.

John put his hands in Sherlock’s hair and pulled him up to kiss him thoroughly.

“Bedroom,” Sherlock said when they broke apart. When John nodded back at him, he grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall to his room.

Sherlock led John through the mess of his research and onto the freshly changed sheets of his bed, wondering at his luck that his flat mate would allow this of him again. He pressed John into the mattress, following him down to press their bodies together and breathe in the scent of John.

 _John._ Steady, dangerous, _intriguing_ John. Sherlock’s fingers flew back to his shirt, desperate to get him _out_ of it and to feel the smooth muscle and puckered scar of his chest.

John helped, pulling the infernal thing off before going to work on Sherlock’s buttons. Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to assist; he was too busy tracing the lines of John’s stomach with fingers and lips, memorizing every pore by touch and taste. He trailed his fingers down John’s sides, making him laugh and squirm beneath him. Ticklish, then.

“Stop that, you git!” John laughed when Sherlock repeated the motion.

Sherlock frowned, but stopped. Even he knew that this was not the time to voice his need for more data.

There were more important things to attend to in any case. John was already taking off Sherlock’s trousers, and Sherlock was more than happy to do the same for the other man. He rid his flat mate of his jeans and pants in one motion before taking a moment to just _observe._

John was already hard, his erect penis bobbing over his stomach. It was rather large, as Sherlock remembered from their last time, dark red against its bed of dark blond curls. Sherlock bent down and licked it eagerly, recalling the taste of John coming over his tongue.

How far would John let him go? He was well aware of the tedious boundaries of straight men; there would be no penetrative sex, of course, but was John experimental enough to be a more active participant? Was he fine with getting a blow job, but shy about touching Sherlock?

He straightened himself out, holding his full frame over John and kissing his lips for a long time. John was eager and open to him, even reaching up to pull Sherlock down.

Slowly, experimentally, he lowered his hips down to John’s, bringing their erections together.

John didn’t shy away. Instead, he thrust up excitedly, the sensation of their penises rubbing against each other enough to make Sherlock groan in the back of his throat.

Sherlock smiled against John’s lips and reached down to grab both of their penises. He began to expertly pull them together, his long fingers wrapping almost all the way around both their shafts. John was ridiculously easy to read, and Sherlock timed his movements with his breath, as he was sure he preferred.

“Oh, yeah, like – Sherlock, like that!” John panted out after a moment.

“Tell me,” Sherlock commanded.

“Tighter, yeah –” John told him, barely managing the words. Sherlock adjusted minutely, just barely keeping control of himself. A few more moments of this, of John and him together, and John’s _voice_ telling him just what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to maintain any control. “Faster – ah – just –”

Sherlock lowered his mouth to John’s neck and bit again, just below the opposite ear.

John tensed beneath him, coming over Sherlock’s hand with a guttural moan that overtook the last of Sherlock’s waning control. He came a few seconds later, calling John’s name before collapsing on his chest.


	6. Faulty Deductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter than usual, but I was SO excited to write something new and get it up here. And the whole tone changes again with the next chapter. So here's a little interlude to get us all back into the narrative. (If it's been a while, I suggest going back to read at least the end of the last chapter, as this one starts just a few seconds after the last ends.)

Sherlock had fantasized having John in his bed, of course. He had thought about it often, especially in the past twelve months when he had only Mycroft and his staff for company. When no one would listen to his complaints, or smile over a dead body with him or act as a sounding board for his ideas and deductions, he had thought of John. And those thoughts had often taken a turn to his more carnal desires.

He had not seriously thought it would happen of course. John was straight. He was constantly telling others this, and he showed no signs of being anything but extremely sexually attracted to the women he dated. Fixated, even.

He had certainly not thought he would be able to repeat the experience after he _did_ have the chance to have sex with John. He wasn’t completely sure what it meant now.

“You’re thinking too much,” John complained, voice still breathy from exertion. “Stop.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed instead of replying, shifting himself off to John’s side, head pillowed on his shoulder. If only he could understand John’s conflicting behaviors. Generally, it was John who best clarified matters of the heart for him, when he found them relevant. He supposed it would be _a bit_ _not good_ to ask John’s opinion of his own behavior in this case.

“No. No more thinking. I thought I told you to quiet down in there,” he repeated. “Get some rest. Think in the morning.” John told him. Sherlock could hear exhaustion in his voice, and wondered if he would fall asleep quickly again. Was that a pattern of his? Another file for the “John” wing of his mind palace.

Or a bit to delete from his hard drive. Now that it was over, he wasn’t sure if he could live with the information just in memories. Perhaps he should have deleted that first escapade sooner.

He sat up reluctantly, not sure if he should listen to his dazed flat mate. If nothing else, he should clean them up, especially if John was likely to fall asleep.

“Nope, not sure I want you going anywhere. You’re nice and warm where you are.” John’s arms came around his waist, tightening enough to hold him there.

“I’m getting a flannel,” Sherlock told him. “Unless you’d prefer to sleep like this? Be my guest, but not with my blankets.”

“Prat,” John muttered affectionately, releasing Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock grabbed a pair of pajama bottoms, slipped into the bathroom and cleaned himself quickly, then brought a warm, wet flannel back to take care of John. He took far more care with wiping the other man down, memorizing his movements and the planes of his body still.

“Mmm, ta,” John said, and for once Sherlock didn’t mind the use of slang, because John was pulling him back down onto his naked form. “Grab the blanket, too? Please?”

“Of course,” Sherlock answered softly, pulling the covers down over both of them before allowing John to arrange him so his head was back on John’s uninjured shoulder. John was already half asleep; surely it would do no harm to stay here while he was asking, as long as he was gone by morning when John would doubtless no longer want his presence.

Sherlock spread his hand over John’s chest, memorizing the steady beat of his heart. Sherlock would use that tattoo in a composition, perhaps – something that would make his violin tremor with the memories of their adventures.

Adrenaline. Or, the combination of adrenaline and the sudden reversal of a year of mourning. That was the best explanation for these – these _anomalies._ Sherlock wouldn’t let him think of them as anything other than that: deviations from the norm, which would probably never happen again.

John put his hand over Sherlock’s, fingers curling over his loosely. “Good night,” he murmured before pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s hair.

“Good night, John,” Sherlock responded softly, hoping his voice sounded strained with exhaustion, not resignation. He kissed the shoulder beneath his cheek.

Sherlock laid there for a long time, too morose to leave but too content being there for staying to be a good idea. He watched as John’s fingers loosened further over his own, until they slipped languidly down to rest against Sherlock’s wrist. And he listened as John’s breathing and heartbeat slowed to the deep rhythms of late stage sleep. No dreams yet – Sherlock told himself he would be gone before the first cycle of REM sleep. Each modicum of information was carefully collected and stored in a room in his mind palace made specifically for ‘John’s Sleeping Patterns.’

It was very early morning before he reached his limit. He was exhausted, but his body had gone far longer than three days without more than a few hours of sleep, and he would never be able to fall asleep here with John in his bed.

He was not like other men; he could not delude himself into thinking he had something that would not be his, even for a night. And he couldn’t bear the thought of waking up with John knowing that he wasn’t his.

He slipped into the living room to the frigid comfort of the sofa, finding a stack of articles he had been meaning to read before the last case.

He would sleep in the afternoon, once John left his bed. And if he enjoyed the lingering scent of the doctor on his pillows, at least that was merely a small torture.

 

…

 

Sherlock heard John stirring long before he actually saw him of course. He had plenty of time to arrange himself on the sofa, articles piled around him as though they had held his attention through the night.

They had not, not while his mind was still firmly focused on his flat mate, but that was not the point.

John finally emerged from Sherlock’s room at 8:48 exactly, bleary eyed and still a bit dazed from sleeping in an unfamiliar bed.

Sherlock briefly wondered if his presence would have alleviated the discomfort of that. Assuredly not; he would have only made John more anxious.

John went straight to the kettle, turning it on and starting his daily routine: bringing out two cups, doling out milk and sugar in their favorite proportions and finding the hearty Palace Breakfast tea wherever he had hidden them from Sherlock this week. (Not that Sherlock would experiment with the expensive varieties; even he knew better than that. And besides, John always had a bit of cheap loose leaf about if he needed tea for an experiment.)

John didn’t talk through his routine, but he rarely did. Still, Sherlock observed an unusual tension in his muscles as he made their tea. It didn’t leave him as he poured it into the cups and brought one to Sherlock.

“Well,” John said finally, settling into his armchair. “I think we ought to talk about last night.”

“What is there to talk about?” Sherlock asked caustically. “I think it’s obvious that there’s nothing to say.”

“Nothing to say? Are you mad?” John asked anxiously. “Did you – and tell me honestly now, because I never know with you – did you not experience the same  night last night as I did? The one where you solved a case and then we came home and shagged?”

“I also recall dinner between the two events,” Sherlock pointed out. From the look on John’s face that was the wrong thing to say. “But yes, those were the highlights of the day.”

“Well then how can you say there’s nothing to talk about?” John asked.

Sherlock sighed. Would John actual make him _talk_ about it? Couldn’t he make it easy? “Adrenaline, John,” he said crisply, ignoring the urge to comment on the case instead of the sex. “I think it would be obvious even to you; you are a doctor after all. A mix of adrenaline and the stress of our renewed acquaintance clearly had unexpected results.”

“Unexpected results? _Renewed acquaintance?”_ John was trying to school his face, but the strain around his eyes told Sherlock that he was really getting upset. “You know what? I should know better. I’m off to shower, then out.”

“Where?” Sherlock asked automatically. It would not do to have John away for long.

“I don’t know. The clinic, maybe,” John told him. “And I have drinks with Greg tonight – ”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

“– And no, I won’t cancel it. You can spend a night alone, you sodding wanker,” John told him.

“But, John –”

“Not another word, Sherlock,” John said, his voice calmer but his anger no less evident for it. He marched quickly from the living room to the bathroom, every move overly controlled.

And what did John have to be angry about? Sherlock was clearly saving them from an embarrassing and uncomfortable conversation.

He didn’t get the chance to ask. John was already in the shower before Sherlock got over his surprised daze.

It was an inconvenient side effect of exhaustion, this slowing of the mind. And one Sherlock realized had surely lost him the chance to figure out this argument.

Sherlock sighed and stood up, ignoring the mess of papers around him. They would wait, he decided as he headed for his room. His body needed rest, first. Then he would handle John.

He tapped out a quick text to his brother, scowling at the need for it, though there was no one to see. Mycroft’s men would keep an eye on John during his day out, and by the time John got home tonight, Sherlock would be rested and ready to fix this. 


	7. Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John & Greg have a guy's night. Sherlock is not happy about it.

**Chapter 7 – Night Out**

 

“John! Over here! I want you to meet someone!”

John heard his name over the din of the crowd as soon as he walked into his old local, just after eight that night. He hadn’t actually come to this particular pub at all in the last year – too many memories of dragging Sherlock out here, or holing himself up here to temporarily escape his flat mate’s brilliant madness – but the familiarity still felt good. They hadn’t changed anything about the dark wood furnishings or the sturdy old bar, and it all filled him with a slight sense of nostalgia.

“Greg!” he called, picking out the DI in a corner, glasses already littering his table. He was sitting with a younger woman, no more than thirty, with bright curly red hair and a tall, thin build. “Here early then?”

“Couldn’t help myself. It was a shite day today – all paperwork. Needed a drink,” Greg told him amiably. “Here, this is Erin. Erin, my good friend John Watson.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, turning a bright friendly smile toward John. She was beautiful, conventionally so – nothing at all like Sherlock, but that was probably for the best. He hadn’t come here thinking he would chat anyone up, but he wasn’t going to say no to such an easy distraction.

“And you,” John said with a matching smile. “Join us for a drink?”

“I’d love to but can’t,” she told him, regret in her voice. Her eyes shifted to something a bit more flirtatious. “I was just telling Greg I have to leave. Early day tomorrow. Another time, yeah?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” John told him.

“Great. I’m around here most Thursdays. Come by earlier one week.”

“Will do,” John said, feeling genuinely good for the first time all day. Nothing like being chatted up to boost a bloke’s mood.

“Great, see you around then,” Erin said, stepping away from the table and letting John take his seat.

“Who was that?” John asked Greg as soon as she was out of earshot.

“A victim of poor planning,” Greg said sourly.

“What do you –” John cut himself off as he realized it. He cursed his foul mood for not recognizing it earlier. “You were chatting her up, weren’t you?”

“Trying to,” Greg told him. “Should have known better than to call you over. And what was that about? I thought you and Sherlock…?”

John sighed, not wanting to think about it but feeling the depression that had haunted him all day return. “I need a pint or two before I talk about that. Or perhaps something a bit harder.”

“Right. Two whiskeys, I’ll be right back. You take yours neat, yeah?”

“Please,” John said. 

He settled in as Greg headed to the bar, watching the crowd and trying not to think too hard about this morning. He had been in a rage about it at first, but by afternoon he was just walking around the city, depressed. He should have expected something like that. Sherlock despised sentiment. John should have known better than to try to talk about their shag at all.

“Rough day I take it,” Greg said, coming back with two glasses of whiskey and handing one to John.

“That's one way to put it, yeah,” John agreed before taking a sip of his. It was good stuff, and he took a moment to savor it. “It's pretty unbelievable, all told.”

“Try me,” Greg prompted.

“Well, Sherlock and I might - or might not, I'm not really sure - be shagging,” John said. He took another sip. He'd probably need a few of these tonight.

“Might? How is that a might?” Greg asked.

“We did, I mean. Twice, after the last two cases.”

“And here I thought you were straight,” Greg teased.

“Well, 'not gay' and 'straight' are two different things aren't they? And why would it matter anyway? I thought he was married to his work.”

“Never did see him as interested in any of that, myself,” Greg agreed.

“First time I met him, he told me he was married to his job,” John told him. “Guess he left a thing or two out there.”

“So what went bad?” Greg asked.

“Sherlock - well, he acted like Sherlock didn't he? Told me it was an 'anomaly' the next day. It wouldn't happen again - until it did last night, and then he said the same today.”

“Not what you wanted to hear?”

“I lived with him and all his lunacy for a year and a half, he went off and pretended to off himself in front of me, and a year later when he came back from the dead I moved right back in,” John pointed out. “Not that I ever thought he would be interested, but why else would a man go through that?”

“Well, damn,” Greg said consolingly. “I think you deserve more than just a drink. Tell you what, you can have all the Erins we meet tonight.”

John chuckled. “Might need it. Bloody awful idea though.”

“To awful ideas, then,” Greg said, holding up his glass.

“I'll drink to that,” John agreed with a smile, clinking the glasses together before downing his. So much for savoring.

And wow, did that whiskey pack a punch. It might have been a good idea to stop off for dinner before meeting up with Greg, now that John thought about it. “Another? This round's on me.”

“Don't worry about it,” Greg told him, standing up. “The night's on me - least I could do with all I put you through last year, and Sherlock before and after. Besides, I can afford it - divorce was just finalized. My salary's my own again.”

“Ta. And when you come back, you can tell me all about that.”

“Will do,” Greg said, disappearing back to the bar.

 

...

 

This was unacceptable. Clearly.

It was half eleven at night, and John was still out. Sherlock had slept and woke, showered and changed, even eaten a bit between setting up experiments, and John had still not come home.

Unacceptable.

He glanced at his phone, wondering how John would react to a text. Usually he would text him to come at once, and John would, and all would be well. But usually they didn't have sex, so Sherlock wasn't sure how far he could push things.

There was nothing for it. John would not want to cut his night short, so Sherlock would have to go to him. He knew very well which pub John usually frequented with Lestrade. It would be child's play to track him down and interject himself into John's night.

He put on his jacket and scarf, a shield against the drunken masses of London as much as it was against the cold. He hoped John would appreciate this.

 

...

 

Three whiskeys later, John wasn't sure if letting Greg get him drunk was the best idea. The other man was currently on a quest to get John to talk to every woman in the pub.

“I mean it though,” Greg continued after finishing his drink. “Why not talk to a girl or two, get a date maybe. It'll get your mind off it, if nothing else.”

“Not sure I'm in the mood for women, all told,” John told him.

“Don't blame you there,” Greg said. “They were always my first choice, but with this whole business with the ex, I'm not sure I'm up to it anymore.”

John laughed. “Can't say blokes are much better.”

“Holmeses are a pain in the arse, not blokes,” Greg corrected him genially. “Never had a bloke treat me anything near how a Holmes does. Or a woman.”

“Truer words,” John agreed, raising his glass. “Speaking of, Sherlock seemed to think something was up between you and Mycroft. Where would he get that idea?”

“I. Do. Not. Want. To. Know,” Greg told him emphatically, shaking his head at John. “I'm four drinks in and not equipped for those questions.”

“Really? You're not a bit interested?”

“Not up for conversation,” Greg said, and John swore he saw a bit of a smile playing on his lips. “Sherlock alone is enough for one night, yeah?”

“Enough for a lifetime,” John agreed. “I'm wondering if I did the right thing, moving back so quick. I could get a new flat. Or a bedsit again.”

“Might be better,” Greg agreed. “But would it make you happy?”

John looked at Greg, eyebrow raised. He wasn't sure if there was anything in this situation that could make him happy.

He drained the rest of his glass.

“No, you know what? You're right,” John said. “Absolutely right. I should be out there looking, dating. No reason to let him run my life.”

“No more than he usually does,” Greg amended.

“You're an arse,” John said affably. “But you're right.”

“Good. About time someone recognized it,” Greg laughed. He gestured toward the bar. “She's been looking, and not at me.”

John turned to see a lithe brunette leaning against the bar, smiling at him. She was dressed sexy but casual in tight jeans and a low cut blouse, and the colorful martini in her hand was almost empty. “Not bad,” he said when he turned back to Greg.

“Not bad? I don't know what you're used to, but she's downright lovely,” Greg said. “If you don't want her, send her my way, yeah?”

“Not a chance. This round is on me. Her's, too,” John told him, getting up to talk with the woman. It hadn't been all that long since he'd last done this, and he could feel himself fall into his old habits: back straight, shoulders squared, smiling enough to disarm her without looking awkward or desperate.

“Buy your next drink?” he asked her causally as he approached the bar.

“Thanks,” she smiled, rows of brilliant white teeth sparkling at him. “An appletini, please.” He noted her American accent.

“Sure,” John said, motioning for the bartender. Once he caught her attention, he turned back to the girl. “I'm John by the way. John Watson.” The bartender came over and he interrupted to order: “Two Scotches and an appletini, please.”

“Annie Jones,” she said, holding out one hand for him. “Nice to meet you. I just moved here for work, and it's my first time out. I was just wondering if I had the nerve to introduce myself to you. And your friend, of course.” She blushed, girly and cute and everything that usually attracted John to a woman. “Did I just say that? I'm sorry, I'm not used to being out like this - usually I have a girlfriend or two around to tell me to stop before I put my foot in my mouth. I suppose I should find a few of those in London first. I should stop.”

“No, it's fine,” John said kindly, giving her a reassuring smile and passing over the drink the bartender gave him. “You should have. Though I'm happier to get the chance to meet you without my mate right there.”

“Me too,” Annie giggled. “And thanks again, for the drink.”

“Do you want to sit down with us for a drink? I'd like a bit more company for conversation.”

“Sure,” she smiled charmingly.

John put one hand on her back and led her over to their table, pulling out a chair and using all the skills that had guided him through his journeys over three continents. All the time he couldn't help but think that something felt odd about the whole thing. He should be heading home to Sherlock soon. And how would Sherlock feel to see him flirting with some bird?

He wouldn't much care, would he? And that was the point. John forced himself to smile as he introduced Greg.

“This is DI Greg Lestrade. Greg, Annie Jones, an American who just moved here. She could use a few friends around London.”

“Always happy to do my part,” Greg said with a wry smile as he took her hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You, too,” Annie said. “What's the DI mean? I've never heard that before.”

“Detective Inspector,” John told her. “He's with New Scotland Yard. You're safe as houses as long as you're around him.”

“Well, then, I feel better about London already,” she said. “And what do you do?”

 

...

 

The pub wasn’t that far from the flat, and it only took Sherlock a few minutes to walk there.

It was exactly as he expected when he entered: a controlled chaos of drunken customers and overworked bartenders, all oblivious to what was around them, sober or drunk. Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered why they bothered inebriating themselves at all when they were so good at ignoring their surroundings anyway.

Sherlock kept himself near the walls as he entered, not yet sure if he wanted John and Lestrade to see him. Better to keep the option of a dramatic entrance if the need arose. He scanned the crowd, quickly filtering out the unimportant faces, but having difficulty finding his flat mate and the DI.

Not surprising, with the crowd so thick. Why did so many people frequent the pub on Thursday nights? Wouldn’t Friday or Saturday be more logical?

And no wonder he had trouble, he mused as he finally found them. They were holed up in a corner table, view cut off from the rest of the pub by a half wall. He was quite sure they wouldn’t be able to see him from there, so he took his time watching them.

Greg was exactly as expected: in his work clothes, though his shirt buttons were undone and he had left his jacket at the office. He was relaxed, laughing – clearly he had come to terms with the divorce, or he would be brooding. Interesting how well he took it; Sherlock had expected it to take much longer.

John though – John was _wrong_. Dreadfully wrong, though not at all unexpected.

He was sitting opposite Greg, equally relaxed. A slender woman was sitting beside him, her chair pulled close to his and his arm resting proprietarily around her. Even from here, Sherlock could see how she was leaning into him and laughing just a bit too hard, clearly looking for his approval.

Sherlock scowled. Wasn’t this why he had come back early, because John had started dating again, and sooner or later that would lead to marrying one of these senseless, banal women he favored? Wasn’t his return enough of a distraction from that?

It would have been, he knew, if only he hadn’t gone and lost control of himself. If he had left things as they were, John wouldn’t feel the need to reestablish his heterosexuality so quickly.

Still, now that he was back he knew he wouldn’t lose John to one of them. It would be easy enough to scare her away. Later.

For now, he turned and made his way back out of the pub. No reason to think too hard about it. He knew John was straight; he had expected this. There was no room for him in John’s life as more than a flat mate, a business partner and a friend, and he could accept that. He was married to The Work, after all.

The cool evening air that met him outside was good for him. It gave him grounding, perspective.

He was Sherlock Holmes, a paragon of logic and master of deduction. He had no need for sentiment, and plenty of work to do at home. He straightened his shoulders and made his way back to Baker Street.

 

…

 

John had to admit, Annie was one of the most engaging women he had met since Sarah. She was funny and sweet and just naïve enough to be endearing without being obnoxious. She asked about his work and his adventures with Sherlock without being intrusive. If he hadn’t started the night out with Greg, this would have been an ideal first date.

But for some reason, he couldn’t find it in him to be all that interested in her. She smiled and flirted and touched him at all the right times, but all he could do was compare her to Sherlock. And of course no one could compare to that bastard.

Still, there was no reason not to see her again. Maybe next time he would get his mind off Sherlock long enough to give her a real chance.

He was just wondering the best way to ask for her number without making Greg feel awkward when she shocked him by sidestepping the issue entirely.

“Wow,” she yawned. “I didn’t realize how late it was getting. Would you mind walking me home, John? I’m still not sure how I feel about the streets of London at night.”

It had been a long time since he was naïve enough to misinterpret that invitation. And that was not something he was equipped for tonight, especially not a half dozen drinks in. “I’m not sure how much I’d be of help there,” he told her honestly, trying to sound apologetic. “Not sure if I can get myself home, never mind someone else. Should have had dinner before coming out. Next time, though, yeah?”

She smiled sweetly at the suggestion, clearly understanding all of his offers. “Yeah, I’d like that,” she told him. She fished through her purse for a moment before taking out a pen and a business card. After writing a mobile number on the back, she handed it to him. “Call me. Maybe next time we can start with dinner.”

John pocketed the card and gave her his most charming smile. “Count on it.”

“Will do. I’ll catch a cab, then. Have a good night,” she said, leaning over to kiss John on the cheek. She waved at Greg as she stood up to gather her things. “Nice to meet you, detective.”

“You, too,” Greg said with a smile. He waited until she left the pub before turning back to John. “And what was that about?”

“What?” John asked.

“You know what,” Greg said. “A beautiful woman like that throws herself at you, and you tell her ‘maybe next time’ and send her off alone? Are you insane?”

“Maybe,” John said. “But there was no helping it. I was just comparing her to Sherlock the entire night.”

Greg sighed. “You, my friend, have a problem.”

“I’ll drink to that.” John held up his glass before realizing it was empty.

“Not this time. I think you’ve had enough,” Greg said, trying to stand up, but catching his foot on the leg of his chair. “So have I for that matter. Think you’re alright heading back to Baker Street? I have a guest room you could use if you’d prefer not to see him.”

John though about it for a long minute. Sherlock would be an arse if John didn’t come home tonight. Then again, he would probably be an arse anyway if John did come home.

But John didn’t exactly fancy the idea of sleeping so far from his best mate. Not yet, just days still since he had come back from the dead. In fact, now that he thought of it, he was aching to see him, to remind himself that Sherlock was indeed alive and causing trouble.

“I think I ought to go home,” John told him. “I shouldn’t, but I want to see him. I still think it’s not real sometimes, that he’s actually dead.”

“I hear you there, mate,” Greg told him. “Let’s settle up and get you home before his majesty starts with the texts. I could use my own bed, too.”

John could hear a note of loneliness in Greg’s tone, and he almost spoke up. It must be hard for the DI, finding him dropped from a decade or two of marriage into the single life again; John remembered what it felt like coming home to his lonely bedsit for the last year, and it was a hard thing to get used to.

Greg wouldn’t appreciate John’s comments, though. Instead he just nodded and followed his friend up to the bar.


	8. Uncharacteristically Distracted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly the scene a lot of you were asking for, but at least I gave you something sweet to end on this time. <3

In the end, John decided avoiding Sherlock entirely was the best course of action. At least for now. Sherlock may have been his best mate, but he was also absolutely toxic as long as John still felt so strongly for him.

Friday morning he had called the clinic, asking to come back to work on Monday. They were happy to give him all his old hours and more, as two other doctors had suddenly left after being caught with their hands in the medicine cabinets, so to speak. He spent the rest of Friday in his room with his laptop, writing his blog entry for the latest case. He still hadn’t posted it, as he was still half expecting a message from Mycroft asking him to keep the drug a secret.

He arranged to visit with Harry over the weekend, which was a trial in and of itself, but worth the time spent away. Sherlock seemed quieter when he got back, certainly less frustrating, and John was happy for the reprieve.

And now, in the third stage of his plan to distance himself enough from Sherlock to resume their friendship normally, he found himself spending his Wednesday night at an American restaurant with Annie. He told her it was to give her a taste of home, but he in fact enjoyed a well made hamburger as much as the next bloke, and he rarely had the chance to treat himself to one.

She was just as charming sober as drunk, and he found himself drawn into the conversation, able to enjoy her presence for the sake of it. At least, he was when they were just talking. Every time she leaned over to touch him or gave him a flirtatious look, he couldn’t help thinking of Sherlock.

Sherlock, who had holed himself up in his room sometime yesterday while John was at work, and who John had not seen in almost two days as a result. John really should make sure to go home tonight, if only to make sure the genius remembered to have something more substantial than tea.

“So what was your favorite case?” Annie asked over her burger. “Or your least favorite, for that matter.”

“Couldn’t tell you, honestly,” John told her. “There were so many – I rather enjoyed them all. Sherlock is – well, working with Sherlock is less like a job and more like a string of adventures. The only ones I’d want to take back would be Moriarty’s plots.”

“I remember hearing about that, even in the States,” Annie said. “We were all following it in the office, at least those of us who wanted the transfer to London. Though I have to admit, I didn’t think you were _that_ John Watson; I didn’t put two and two together until tonight.”

“I think I prefer that,” John admitted. “It’s still a bit odd sometimes, being known for my blog. I’d rather get to know someone without the preconceptions.”

 John’s phone buzzed, and he instantly knew who it was. Who else would it be?

_New case. Meet me at St. Bart’s mortuary at once. – SH_

“Sorry,” John said, looking down to respond.

_Not now. On a date._

“It’s Sherlock,” he explained. “A new case, he’s asking me to come, but I’m sure it can wait. We can enjoy our dinner first.”

_Urgent. Four missing women. Same circumstances, but link unclear. One found dead today, the others may be in danger. – SH_

John frowned. That – well, it would be important the night he was on a date, wouldn’t it?

“You have to go, don’t you?” Annie asked, clearly reading the look on his face.

“He says it’s urgent. He needs me to look at a body at St. Bart’s – the local hospital,” John told her.

“It’s ok,” she said. “It actually sounds kind of cool – an adventure, like you said. Just promise to make it up to me?”

John smiled, relieved. “It’s a deal,” he told her as he texted Sherlock back.

_On my way. You owe me._

When he looked up, Annie had already flagged down a waiter and was asking him to box up the rest of their dinners and bring the check.

“Thanks for understanding,” John said, handing his card over to the waiter. He briefly thought about using Sherlock’s, but that would be a step too far, having the detective pay for his date. Even if he was the one ruining it. Though maybe he would have made a different call if Sherlock hadn’t waited until John had already handed it over to text back.

_I assure you this is far more interesting than your date. – SH_

John rolled his eyes and pocketed the infernal thing. Not that Sherlock was wrong. He could already feel the rush of blood and steady calm in his muscles that came with a case. It had been more than a week since their last bit of excitement, and he was already eager for more.

John got up and pulled out Annie’s chair, striving to be a gentleman even now as anticipation washed over him. He helped her into her coat and said the right pleasantries to let her know he had enjoyed himself, and that he was sorry to leave. At least she seemed to genuinely understand his predicament. Maybe it was an American thing, or maybe just because she was familiar with his blog.

Either way, she noticed his excitement.

“You love it, don’t you?” she asked, tilting her head and resting one hand on his arm. “The cases, and running around after him, I mean.”

“Yeah,” John said. “Suppose I do.”

“Good,” she told him. “It’s good to do things you love. Just make sure to call me about that date later this week, too.”

“Absolutely,” John told her, collecting his card and receipt from the waiter.

He put one hand around her waist and led her outside to the cab stand. “Here, let me,” he said, pulling out a note from his wallet. “Least I can do, pay for your ride home.”

“Thanks,” she said.

It only took a minute for one to pull up, and for a moment John was stuck in the very awkward situation of feeling like he should kiss her, but not really sure he wanted to. He hadn’t kissed anyone since Sherlock came back – no one but Sherlock.

She solved his dilemma by pressing a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Until next time, then,” she said in his ear, one hand on his opposite cheek, before melting back into the cab.

“Next time,” he agreed, handing the driver the note and waving them off.

 

…

 

Once again, the sight of Saint Bart’s caught his breath as he walked up to it, just over half an hour later. Sherlock had been there, sprawled across the sidewalk, a pool of blood beneath his head.

John had seen him, touched his unresponsive skin, fought to find a pulse.

He had _been there._ Sherlock had died.

John forced himself to breathe in. He clenched his hands, stopping the shaking before it started. He willed himself to step forward on a leg that wanted to buckle beneath him.

Sherlock was alive. Alive and well and the same brilliant, _mad_ genius he had always been. He was waiting for John inside.

Or, he should have been. Molly was waiting for him at the mortuary, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. It was the first time he’d seen her since Sherlock’s return, and he supposed he owed her a few words for her part in the masquerade, but now was not the time.

“Where is he?” he asked, only letting a hint of urgency color his question.

“Dunno. On his way, I think,” Molly told him. “I’m glad to see you, John.”

“You, too, Molly,” John said distractedly, looking around the morgue.

“Cause the thing is,” she continued, “I thought it would be good to have some time to talk, just you and me.”

“No time for talk!” Sherlock exclaimed, bursting through the main doors, all drama and grace. John’s eyes focused on him immediately, and he breathed easier for the sight. “We’ve a case, John! Four missing women over three months, all the same profile. Lestrade had the wit to recognize they were connected, but got no further than that. And now one’s dead. What you do think?’

“I think you ought to get on if before another dies,” John told him cheekily, grinning like a schoolboy.

“My thoughts exactly!” Sherlock said with a manic grin. “Molly! Where’s the body?”

“Right here,” Molly sighed, leading them to a corpse. Her voice was small but certain as she described it. “Audrey Campbell. Cause of death: massive brain trauma. Body is heavily bruised, looks like she was beaten with both fists and blunt objects.  No signs of rape or torture beyond the fatal beating.”

“Right, are we sure all these bruises were from the same time?” John asked, putting on a clean pair of gloves.

“As sure as we can be,” Molly told him. “No old bruises show beneath the new ones.”

“Toxicology?” Sherlock asked as John began his examination.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. She wasn’t starved through weeks she was missing, and we didn’t find any drugs or poisons.”

John lifted her arm, noting an odd mark. “Sherlock, look at this,” he said, pointing to the scar.

Two perfect crescents intersected in a stylized **X** on the inside of her bicep. It was healed, but still red under the glossy silver sheen – no more than a few months old, likely. 

Sherlock crowded behind him to look, neglecting any consideration of personal space.

“Have you seen something like it before?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock told him, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t important. Well done, John!”

John tried not to show how he beamed under the praise.

“Molly, what do you know of this mark?” Sherlock asked.

“We noted it in the autopsy, but it’s nothing I’ve seen before either.”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s reminiscent of a gang symbol, but new. Not part of any known group.”

“On a stay-at-home mother from Hampstead?” Molly asked. “What would it be doing there?”

“Exactly!” Sherlock said, picking over the woman’s skin and taking pictures with his phone. “Were there any other marks?”

“None like that,” Molly told him. “Just the bruises.”

“Then we start there,” Sherlock said, tossing his gloves in the bin and heading for the door as brusquely as he had come from it. “John, grab Molly’s notes. Time to go home.”

“Home?” John asked, surprised. Usually Sherlock would be out all night on a case like this.

“Yes, home.” Sherlock pivoted around to look at him. “We have a stack of old files to get through before we interview the families tomorrow.”

And that explained it. “Oh. Right, then.”

John took the file from Molly and followed Sherlock out the door.

As usual, Sherlock found a cab with no trouble. And John of course, followed him right in. That’s what he did, wasn’t it? Follow Sherlock Holmes. Best job in the world some days.

He settled in, as he had lately, fixing his gaze on the window and trying to keep his distance in the small cab. All his body language fended off any conversation, he knew.

Sherlock never did care much about body language though.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked icily as soon as they were on their way.

“Tell you what?” John asked, knowing quite well what Sherlock was referring to. “I would have told you all about the date tonight if you had been around yesterday.”

“Not the date. Of course I knew about the date,” Sherlock snapped. “You’re planning to move out.”

John sighed. He knew Sherlock would hack his password and see his browser history. Maybe he had even wanted him to. It would be better, he knew, to leave Baker Street and find a place of his own. Maybe he would even be able to distance himself from Sherlock enough to be his friend again, instead of being caught in the limbo they were in now. “I was just looking.”

“At bedsits and flat shares.”

“It’s nothing,” John lied flat out. “I’m just – it wasn’t serious. I was thinking I need some space.”

John glanced over at Sherlock, catching a flash of pain before he schooled his expression. On anyone else, John would have called that look loneliness, or heartbreak.

John briefly wondered if that was what it actually was.

“You don’t have to come along on these cases, if that’s it,” Sherlock said after a moment.

“No – no, are you serious? No. I love the cases,” John told him. “You know that.”

“I’ve been trying to give you space in light of – _recent developments_ ,” Sherlock continued. “I assumed you would prefer that.” And it cut right through John, that Sherlock could do that: share so much with him, cross so many boundaries, and then not even say the words. Sex, shagging, intercourse – anything. Sherlock wouldn’t even dignify it with a name.

John couldn’t talk about this right now. Not if they were going to work on this case. “I just – let’s get through this case, and we’ll talk about it after. I’m not leaving, not any time soon. We have work to do.”

“Indeed we do,” Sherlock said as the cab pulled up before their flat. He handed a few bills to the driver and got out.

By the time John was out, he was already up in the flat. Instead of going right in, John put his hands in his pockets and leaned against their railing.

He almost hated himself for it, but he really never had been serious about looking at flats. He should have been; what he had with Sherlock now was unhealthy at best, devastating to their friendship at worst. He knew he should be elsewhere, living on his own again and only seeing Sherlock for cases or the occasional dinner or drink.

He also knew he would never be able to do it. If he did, he would be spending all his nights on the couch of 221B, unable to sleep without knowing Sherlock was alive and well nearby, at least for now.

John sighed and went inside, preparing himself for a long night of reading files and keeping his distance from his consulting detective.

 

…

 

Their second evening on the case left Sherlock with few more clues than he had the first. Even after a day full of interviews, new data was scarce.

Sherlock paced around the apartment restlessly, grasping fruitlessly at ideas and trying to concentrate on the case.

Perhaps he would have been more successful if John had not come with him. Or if he had not found it necessary to confront John about his browser history last night. That was not normally a conversation he would have during a case, but he rightfully thought it might be the only time he could corner John before it was too late.

He scowled at the offending laptop, wondering if it would make him feel better to toss it across the room. The satisfaction was probably not worth raising John’s ire and chasing him out of the flat again.

In any case, his mind was not on the Work. The only term he could use to describe his work today was uncharacteristically distracted.

At least John was _there_ , with him, though. After a week being cooped up in his room, or out at the clinic or with his sister or on a date, it was a relief to actually be near John. _His_ John.

“Come eat something,” John said from the sofa where he was set up with two plates and more containers of Indian take away than the two of them could ever expect to consume in one meal.

“You know digestion is distracting,” Sherlock told him, keeping his voice steady. Didn’t John _know_ this by now?

“Then come sit down. You’re making me nervous with all that pacing.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock said, coming into the living room area nonetheless. “I’m missing something. Something to do with the mark. The families should have provided the clues. I need to go over the interviews again.”

“Not unless you’re going to your room,” John told him. “You had enough time to go over them in that head of yours while I was getting take away. You haven’t eaten in two days, have you?”

“I had some tea this afternoon,” Sherlock told him sourly.

“And I bet you didn’t sleep last night either,” John pointed out.

“I can’t think when I’m asleep,” Sherlock complained.

“And you can’t think half starved and exhausted either,” John told him. He started spooning out small portions of Sherlock’s favorite curries and rice dishes onto the empty plate beside his own half-eaten dinner. The masala in particular smelled heavenly, and Sherlock’s treasonous stomach growled its desire.

“I am a master of my body,” Sherlock said stubbornly.

“Just a bit, please?” John asked. He put down a dish with what would be only half a meal for a normal person, but more than enough for Sherlock.

How could Sherlock refuse? Indeed, he had more trouble than he wanted to admit refusing John anything.

“Oh, very well,” Sherlock said, sitting down beside John. He was careful to keep his distance from his blogger, not quite trusting his own reactions. He had found it quite impossible to delete the memories of the last time the two of them had touched.

He picked up his fork and started eating, trying again to focus on the case as he did so. Instead, he couldn’t help noticing John’s pleased smile.

He relaxed minutely. Smiles from John were rare things these days.

They ate in silence, both content in their own heads for the moment. Sherlock only ate about half of what John served him, and when he was done, he leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling as though it would give him answers.

Finally, after both were finished eating and John had cleaned up, John sat back down beside him and said, “So, you’re missing something. Go over all the interviews again, out loud for me. Maybe I’ll remember something you don’t.”

Sherlock turned his head and gave him a disbelieving look, knowing full well what their comparative memories were like.

“Well then, maybe you’ll remember something as you talk,” John said, reading his expression clearly.

“First: Eric Campbell, Audrey’s husband,” Sherlock started, naming the first person they had met this morning. He dropped his head back again to start at the ceiling. “One-point-nine meters tall, about eighteen stone. Longer hair than an accounting manager should have – bound to his childhood dream of being a lead guitarist, no doubt. Still plays, from the calluses on his fingers…”

Sherlock went over each detail aloud, with only slight encouragement and the occasional question from John. It didn’t help, but it was almost soothing to map out each piece of their puzzle aloud.

Unfortunately, it was also monotonous, and even he wasn’t immune to the somniferous effect of a soothing exercise. He was halfway through the fifth interview when his drowsiness got the better of him, his head lolling down to rest on John’s shoulder.

He almost jumped up, expecting John to flinch in anger or frustration, but John’s reaction just soothed him further.

“Come on then,” John said, his voice soft and comforting. “How about you just lie down and keep telling me about the interviews? If you’re not going to sleep, you can at least rest your body.”

Then John’s hands were on his shoulders, gently leading him down to lay his head in the doctor’s lap. Sherlock didn’t struggle, almost didn’t breath. This – this was good. But what was John thinking, knowing what Sherlock wanted from him?

He decided the best course of action was to keep his eyes closed and continue to recite the events of the day, so he started up with the second missing woman’s daughter, who was far too young to have known anything, but whose perspective may have been the most insightful of the day.

Surprisingly, John’s fingers started to move through his hair after the first few sentences, slowly at first. He became bolder as Sherlock continued to relax, carding them through his curls.

Sherlock continued to talk, not letting himself thing on it too hard. He could get used to this far too easily. It was dangerous, John should know that…

He pushed the thought out of his mind and continued to concentrate on the Work. Despite the ache in his chest, he was content here. And that meant that he was now much more focused, and more relaxed than he had been in days.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback - good or bad - is a writer's lifeblood. The more we get, the more we're driven to write more and get more ;)
> 
> You can also find me blogging about my writing angst, pairing playlists, and generally everything about my fic (and fanart & fics from other authors) at my tumblr: http:/rosaleenban.tumblr.com/


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